


Dreamweaver

by Mayalaen



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Canon-Typical Violence, Case Fic, Disturbing Themes, Dreams and Nightmares, Gen, Graphic Description, Hallucinations, Horror, Medical Examination, Medical Procedures, Medication, Mental Health Issues, Mental Institutions, Nightmares, No Sex, Prison, Psychological Horror, Season/Series 02
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-25
Updated: 2015-12-25
Packaged: 2018-05-09 08:36:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 95,453
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5532761
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mayalaen/pseuds/Mayalaen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Henriksen ends up catching Sam and Dean at the end of Nightshifter, but because of the nature of their crimes, and after a quick psych eval, Dean’s sent to a criminal psychiatric hospital.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Week 1

**Author's Note:**

> **Warning:** There are multiple medical examinations in this fic, all of which Dean doesn't want, but the staff aren't abusing him, they're doing what they think is best for him. This includes examinations, forced medication, restraints, etc. There are also hallucinations, dreams  & nightmares, and disturbing imagery. This fic is meant to make the reader feel like they're experiencing everything that's happening to Dean.
> 
> The things that happen to Dean in this fic are a combination of personal experiences (my own and friends), research, supernatural elements, and just plain fiction. It's not meant to offend or defend anything having to do with mental illness. Everyone's experience is unique. Everyone's disease is unique. This is Dean's.
> 
> I started this fic in 2007 almost immediately after Nightshifter aired. I worked on it for a few months, and it's been sitting on my hard drive ever since because I just never felt comfortable with it until recently. I’m clearing out my folders, so I’m posting this along with a bunch of other things that have been waiting around.
> 
> I'm not a big fan of first-person POV fic, but I really wanted the readers to get stuck in Dean's head, to see and feel everything right along with him, so I hope I accomplished that. Enjoy!

**FRIDAY – WEEK 1**

It was stupid of us to let our guard down only a week after hearing Henriksen’s voice over the bank phone. It was even stupider to walk into a trap.

I’m thankful that Sam got hurt when everything finally went down. I’ll have blackmail material until the day he dies for the sheer amount of stitches he most likely needed to fix the gash in his forehead when he tripped, but he was taken to the hospital. As soon as he recovered enough to move, he escaped even though he was under police custody at the time. That’s my Sammy.

In the meantime, I was sent to lockup. It wasn’t so bad. I know how to fight, and didn’t even end up sending anybody to the infirmary while I was in jail.

I did, however, undergo a psych evaluation I don’t know what I said, or maybe if it was the grave desecration that sealed my fate, but I was declared mentally unstable to stand trial.

“Step out of the vehicle, Mr. Winchester,” the guard says after he opens the van door for me.

I’m still in my orange jumper, handcuffed with waist chains. I’m shaking a little bit, but I’m hoping the guard doesn’t notice. I’ve heard stories about psychiatric hospitals. I know they’ve come a long way in the last fifty years, but I’m still nervous about this.

I squint as I step down onto the asphalt in front of the hospital. It’s bright outside, and I haven’t seen much of the sun where I’ve been lately. I let the guard guide me into the building.

“Sign here, please,” the intake nurse instructs the guard. The nurse looks to be in his mid thirties, stupid buzz-cut blond hair. He’s more muscular than me, but he’s about my height. “Ah, this was the one that got redirected here at the last minute,” the nurse comments.

“This is the one,” the guard says. I watch as the guard hands the nurse a bag of my personal belongings, the only things that were on me when I was arrested. He then signs the form. The guard turns to me and takes my cuffs and waist chain off.

“Come with me, sir,” the nurse says to me as the door to my left buzzes, and the guard opens it.

“He’s all yours,” the guard says, then leaves me with the nurse. I see two male orderlies come into the hallway.

“I’ll explain everything to you as we go, Mr. Winchester,” the nurse begins as he gestures toward a door to my right.

One of the orderlies opens the door, and I go into the room. There’s a drain in the middle of the floor, shower hose on the far wall. A long table is set up on the right side of the room. Fuck! It’s got a towel, gloves, and a tube of lube on it.

“Remove your clothing, please,” the nurse instructs as the two orderlies guard the door.

I let out a nervous chuckle. I know where this is going, and I don’t like it. “I don’t suppose we could skip this part and--”

“If you don’t cooperate, the orderlies will do it for you,” the nurse interrupts me, nodding to the two men behind me.

I reluctantly start to pull the orange jumper off. I kick the shoes off, get the jumper completely off, then stand up. I can’t help eying the gloves and lube as I pull the shirt off over my head. I finally pull off the ridiculously bright orange boxers they gave me, shove everything to the side next to the shoes.

“Lean your head down and run your fingers through your hair,” he tells me.

I’ve never felt more exposed and vulnerable in my life. Why couldn’t they just send me to prison? I’ve been there before. I know what to expect. I have no clue what’s going to happen to me here. I decide to do as I’m told. For now.

“Arms out to your sides,” the nurse instructs. He pulls a penlight out of his pocket, uses it to look at both my armpits. “Lift your dick and balls for me,” he says.

I try not to laugh as I obey him. This whole thing is just making me feel off and uncomfortable. I laugh when I’m uncomfortable. I can’t help it.

The nurse finishes checking me out, turns off the penlight, puts it back in his pocket. “Put your hands on the table and spread your legs,” he instructs as he picks up the gloves.

“I don’t suppose you’d believe me if I said I didn’t have anything of interest in there, would ya?” I ask with a wince.

“The orderlies can hold you down, if you prefer,” the nurse threatens me, one eyebrow raised.

“Ah, thanks, but no,” I say as I put my hands on the table. No way do I want to be held down for this.

“Spread your legs and relax for me, Mr. Winchester,” the nurse tells me as he squeezes some lube onto his fingers.

My stomach clenches as the man walks around behind me. I try to remember to breathe as he spreads my cheeks with his left hand. As he pushes two fingers in, I go up onto my toes, let out a grunt.

The nurse’s left hand wraps around my hip, pulls me back down to the floor, holds me still while the fingers of his right hand go in deeper than I really think is necessary. But I’ve never had a cavity search before, so I wouldn’t know if he was doing it right or not.

Finally the fingers are gone, and he lets go of my hip. I hear him snap the gloves off, but I'm too busy grimacing over the squishy feeling back there to be excited it's over with. I hope this doesn’t happen too often around here as that was not fun at all.

“Go ahead and shower,” the nurse says, gesturing to the far wall. “There’s shampoo and a bar of soap for you over there.”

There’s only one knob on the wall, but the water that comes out is fairly warm. I shower quickly, wanting to be clothed again as soon as possible. The nurse hands me a towel when I turn off the water, and I walk back over to the table as I dry off.

“Change into these, and then we’ll show you to your room,” the nurse tells me as he points to a set of white scrubs on the table. “You are to keep your slippers on at all times unless you’re in bed,” he says as he points toward said items of clothing.

I feel like telling him to fuck off, but I decide that probably wouldn’t be met with too much enthusiasm from the two guards behind me.

“Follow me,” he says as he heads out the door. “The unit goes on lockdown from eleven p.m. until six a.m. every day. You will not be allowed to leave your room during this time,” he says as we walk down a long hallway.

We come to an elevator, and the nurse presses the button. There are picture windows to my left that show a courtyard. There are people out there wandering about, sitting on benches. It’s actually quite nice out there. 

We get in the elevator and he presses the button for the third floor. “Breakfast is at eight a.m., lunch is at noon, and supper is at five p.m. Meals are not served at other times, so be sure to get to the cafeteria on time,” the nurse tells me.

We get off the elevator and head to the right. I’m getting more and more nervous the farther we walk into this place. I’m totally out of my depth here. I don’t think I’ll be able to just bullshit my way through this one.

“You are to be up and dressed by nine a.m. every day,” the nurse continues. “You’re expected to keep your room picked up and make your bed daily. Do not close your room door at any time for any reason. This will be done for you when the unit is on lockdown. There will be a privacy screen in your room to dress behind, so there should be no reason for you to close your door.”

We stop at a door and the nurse uses a key card to open it, then gestures for me to go into the room. I warily step in through the doorway.

“This is your room,” he says. “Your belongings will be sent up to you after we go through them. You can either have them put in a lock box or you can keep them in the room with you once it has been decided if you may have them or not.”

I would laugh at that if I wasn’t feeling so insecure right about now. My belongings consist of my wallet, keys, ring, amulet, and a lighter. I doubt they’ll let me have any of those things here, especially the lighter. Should I ask him just to see the look on his face?

“Your psychiatrist is going to be meeting with you today at two o’clock,” the nurse informs me. “That’s one hour from now. Tomorrow morning at eleven a.m. you’ll be getting a physical from Dr. Blackstone in the infirmary. Don’t be late for that appointment.”

Well that totally ruins tomorrow. I hate doctors. I don’t need a physical. I’m fine. I certainly don’t need a psychiatrist either, but I understand why they’re sending me to one.

“Visiting hours are from two to four p.m. every day,” the nurse says. “There are no phones in the rooms. If you would like to make a call, it must be done from the nurse’s station during visiting hours. You will be accompanied by an orderly while you make the call. It will be recorded.”

The room is really small. There’s a single bed on the right side of the room with a nightstand to the left of it. To the left of that is the screen he promised me for privacy. It’s just a three-fold metal screen with gauze curtains. It doesn’t really give all that much privacy in my opinion.

“Your daily schedule is on a piece of paper just outside your room. Do you have any questions?” the nurse asks me.

I shake my head. “No,” I tell him, trying not to let my voice give away how nervous I am.

“Right now most of the patients are in the common room,” he says as he points off down the hallway. “It’s free time right now, so you can either go there or remain in your room. You can request reading material at the nurse’s station or you can play games with the patients or watch TV in the common room. If you have any questions, you can ask the head nurse, Robert. Just go to the nurse’s station, and he’ll help you,” the man tells me. He then nods to the two orderlies, and they head off down the hallway.

Now I can relax just a bit. Those orderlies were kind of freaking me out. They were big, and they didn’t seem in the mood to put up with any shit. I don’t think I want to get them angry with me. Not that I couldn't kick their asses, but I'd rather not see where they put me in here if I'm violent.

“I’ll see you around, Mr. Winchester,” the nurse says, then leaves me alone.

Well, I don’t suppose I can sit around all day in my room. I guess I’ll go to the common area. I really don’t know what to expect. I would think that they put everybody together no matter what their problem is, so I have no clue what kind of people I’m going to meet.

As I walk into the common area, I see people milling about; some on couches, some on chairs. Most of them are watching a TV that’s mounted on the wall to my right. To my left is what I am assuming is the nurse’s station.

“Dean?” a male voice calls from the nurse’s station.

“Yes, sir,” I answer as I head toward the man. He's tall. He looks about as tall as Sam, only he’s a little more muscular. Is everybody here built like this? I suppose they have to be if they deal with unruly patients.

“I’m Robert,” he says with a smile. “I’m the head nurse here. If you need anything, let me know, and I’ll try to help you.”

“Thanks,” I say almost shyly. I can’t believe I’m acting like this. Where’s my confidence? Oh, yeah. I think I left it outside in the van. 

With nothing else to do, I decide to sit down on the couch and watch TV with the rest of the patients. Some black and white movie is on. I don’t recognize it, and I really don’t pay much attention to it, either. I’m too busy worrying about Sam, wondering where he is, if he’s working at getting me out of here. I hope he doesn’t get himself caught trying to help me break out.

I know Sam, though. He’s thorough. He’s smart. If anyone can get me out of here, it’s him. He may need help, but he’ll do it. I just have to sit tight until he comes for me.

“Dean?” I hear a different male voice call.

I look up to see a man in a white coat with graying hair. There are glasses riding low on his nose and he’s looking over them at me. “Yes, sir?”

“Come with me, please,” he says, turns on his heels, and heads down the hallway to my right.

I hurry to catch up with him. He takes me down the hallway to a door, swipes a keycard through the security system, then opens the door. The office is totally different than everything else I’ve seen so far. It’s warm and cozy compared to the rest of the hospital. The floor is carpeted and there is an oak desk to the left, bookshelves behind that are full of all different kinds of books. To my right are more bookshelves, a chair directly in front of me.

“Have a seat, Dean,” the doctor says as he gestures to the seat in front of the desk. “I’ve gone over your file.”

“I hope you were pleasantly entertained,” I say with a smirk. The nameplate on his desk reads Dr. Matthew Richards.

He pauses for a moment, seemingly unsure if that was a joke or not. He then gives me a tight smile. “The psychiatrist that evaluated you suggested a drug regimen that I agree with. You’ll pick up your medication every morning no later than ten a.m.,” he tells me.

“Whoa, I don’t take medication, doc,” I tell him with a nervous chuckle.

“Yes, well, you will be taking medication here. It’s required,” he says with an irritated grimace.

I shake my head. “I don’t take medication,” I say again.

“Unfortunately, Dean, you don’t have a choice in the matter,” he tells me as he leans forward, puts his elbows on his desk.

“Yes, I do. I choose not to take them,” I say adamantly.

“Yes, it is your choice not to take them voluntarily,” he says as if he's talking to a child. “But if you refuse to take them voluntarily, you will be restrained and medicated intravenously.”

“Oh,” I say stupidly, completely shocked. I hadn’t expected that one. I probably look a little dazed.

“I would prefer you start them immediately,” the doctor says quickly. “So when you leave here, I would like you to go to the nurse’s station and pick them up. I already have them waiting for you.”

My stomach clenches. I don’t want to do this. Why do I have to be on medication? I’m not nuts. I wish I could get a hold of that psych evaluation from the last doctor I talked to. Maybe I could see why they think I’m psychiatric hospital material.

The doctor flips through a few pages in my file on his desk. “There will be daily support meetings. I would appreciate it if you are on time with them and that you participate. It will be a small group. You are not _required_ to participate, but I would prefer that you do,” he tells me.

“Am I required to go to these meetings?” I ask, eyebrow raised. This is just going from bad to worse as far as I can see.

“Yes,” he says with a tight nod. “The meetings begin at three p.m. sharp. When you leave here, you will go directly to the nurse’s station to take your medication, then Robert will show you to where the meeting will be held,” he says, never taking his eyes off my report.

I sit and watch him read through my file for a few moments. There’s no expression on his face, so I can’t tell if what he is reading is good or bad. I guess I should assume that it’s bad as I ended up in here because of it.

“You will be meeting with a counselor twice a week, and you will be meeting with me twice a week,” he says, glancing up at me.

“Why am I going to be seeing both a counselor and you?” I ask.

“I merely prescribe medications, Dean,” he says, tone of voice almost patronizing. “For your mental health, you will be going to Dr. Jim Morgan. Dr. Morgan will be conducting the meetings you are required to attend every day.”

Can I admit that I’m scared? This is just plain overwhelming. I don’t want to do any of this shit that he’s told me about. I want out. I already miss being able to do what I want, when I want. I miss Sam.

“Your appointments will be on your schedule,” he informs me. He flips through a few more pages, lets out a sigh as he closes the file, sits back in his chair. “I think you’ll find that the staff here is quite pleasant. If you follow the rules, do as you’re told, you should have a fairly nice stay here, Dean,” the man tells me.

I let out another nervous chuckle. A nice stay? That’s just sick is what that is. This man should be on drugs, not me.

“That’s all for today, Dean,” the doctor says as he stands. “Go straight to the nurse’s station,” he says as he opens the door for me.

“Yes, sir,” I mumble as I slip out the door.

He closes it behind me and I realize I’m shaking. I’m fucking shaking. I don’t want to take the drugs he prescribed. Maybe I can sneak past the nurse’s station and get to my room.

“Dean,” Robert says as I pass by. How did he know I was there? His back was turned to me.

“Yes, sir?” I reply as I stop, probably looking like a deer caught in the headlights.

He holds a small cup out to me. “Here are your medications,” he says with a smile. He really does seem nice.

“Oh, the doc said I didn’t need to take them today,” I say as I start to walk away.

“Dean, you’re scheduled to take meds today. Come take the meds, please,” he says, still sounding pleasant and helpful.

“You can ask him if you want,” I say, really hoping Robert doesn’t push it.

“There’s no need. You’re on the schedule. Please take the meds,” he says again. This guy is patient, I’ll give him that.

“I really don’t think I need them. See, we talked, and I think I’m cured!” I say with a winning smile, turning my charm up as far as it’ll go.

Robert turns to his right. “Can I get a little help?” he asks, but I can’t see who he’s talking to because of the way the nurse's station is set up.

The door to the left of the nurse’s station buzzes and two orderlies come out into the common area. Robert is behind them and has a syringe in his hand.

“Oh, fuck,” I breathe as I start to back up. “Can’t we talk about this, guys?” I ask as I hold my hands up in front of me. They start moving toward me and I totally panic. “Fuck, no!” I yell as I dart around them, taking off toward my room.

I hear them coming after me, so I run faster down the hallway. I lose my right slipper in the process, but I make it to my room and start to slam the door closed. Both of the orderlies get there just in time and start to push on it. I’m no match for two men, and I fall backward into the room, landing hard on my ass.

“No! No, I don’t need this!” I yelp as I scramble backward. The two orderlies come at me, each one grabbing an arm as Robert comes in the door. “No! Let me go!” That’s when I see the syringe again.

I can’t stand shots. I know it sounds ridiculous with all Sam and I go through all the time, but I really, really don’t like shots. It’s not just the pain. I can handle pain. It’s knowing that it’s coming that I can’t stand. Well, that and the fact that there are drugs in the syringe.

“I don’t need the shot! I don’t need the shot!” I yell quite loudly.

“Calm down, Dean,” Robert says as he comes into the room, uncapping the syringe.

“Please let me go! I don’t need the shot!” I scream as the orderlies turn me over.

Each orderly grabs an arm and a leg, holds me down so tightly I almost can’t move at all. I’m trying with all my strength to get them to let me go, but they don’t seem to be working all that hard at holding me down. Frankly, it’s a little bit insulting. I'm a hunter, right? Trained to fight since I was a kid?

“Just relax, Dean,” Robert says from behind me.

I feel my pants being lowered. “No! No shots! I really don’t need it! I’m sorry!” I scream at them. “Fuck! No, stop!” I yell as I feel the needle in my left cheek.

“I’ll go get a wheelchair,” I hear Robert tell the orderlies.

The orderlies turn me over again and sit me down on the floor, manhandling me as if it's nothing. In the time it takes for Robert to go get the wheelchair, everything starts to look blurry and I feel funny inside. There’s a buzzing sensation deep inside my body that seems to be getting louder. My muscles feel weak all of a sudden. I don’t feel good, and I squeeze my eyes shut, let out a moan.

“Get him up and into the wheelchair,” I hear Robert say, but he sounds far away, almost like I'm listening to him over a bad phone line.

I feel myself lifted into the chair and Robert puts his hand on my shoulder to steady me, starts to push me out of the room. Okay, now I’m officially scared. I have no idea where they’re taking me, and there’s no way I can defend myself. I feel like shit.

“Just calm down, Dean. We’re going to take good care of you,” Robert says, sounding almost sad.

I open my eyes as they wheel me into a room. Everything is blurry, but I see a hospital bed directly in front of me. There are straps at the middle and end of the bed. I suddenly realize they’re going to strap me down! I start to pant I’m so scared.

Robert cups the back of my head with his hand, leans down. “Listen to me for just a second, Dean. I want you to calm down. Nobody’s going to hurt you. We’re going to put you in restraints and put an IV in you, but nobody’s going to hurt you,” Robert says in a reassuring tone.

I let out a whimper as Robert steps away from the wheelchair and the two orderlies pick me up. “No! Please don’t!” I yell as they lay me down on the table. They must have given me some really strong kind of sedative, because I fight with all my strength, yet it doesn’t seem to do anything but tire me out.

They get me onto the bed, and while one holds me down, the other attaches the restraints to first my wrists and then my ankles. Then there’s a strap that goes across my stomach. Once they're finished, they stand off to my ride side as if ready for anything Robert might tell them to do.

“Please let me go,” I say, words a little bit slurred.

Robert then comes to stand over me. He runs the fingers of his right hand through my hair. “I’m going to put an IV in your arm now. Try to calm down for me,” he says with a smile.

I wish he wasn’t so nice to me. I’m kind of feeling like a jerk now. I still don’t want to take the medication, and I certainly don’t want to be tied down. “Please let me go!” I beg as I pull at all the restraints.

“Hold his left arm for me,” Robert says to an orderly, who then walks over and gets a good hold on my left arm.

“No! No IV! No drugs! Ow, no, don’t!” I yell as I try to get away from them, but Robert already has the IV in and he tapes it down to my arm.

“He fought the drugs, didn’t he?” I hear Dr. Richards ask from the doorway.

“He sure did,” Robert replies as he picks up a clipboard and hands it to Dr. Richards.

“Start him on the usual loading doses,” Dr. Richards says as he scribbles on the clipboard. “Call me tomorrow when he starts coming off of them.”

What’s a loading dose? I’m going to be like this until tomorrow? What are they giving me? I squeeze my eyes shut and turn my face to the ceiling. I’m still panting. I don’t want to be tied down. I can’t defend myself and I’m completely vulnerable to anything they want to do to me.

I hear Robert to my left and I turn my head so I can see him. He’s a little fuzzy and wavy, but I can see that it's him standing there. “Please don’t give me any drugs. I’m sorry I ran from you. Please let me up,” I beg, trying to sound calm and rational even though I feel anything but.

Robert turns to me with three syringes in his hand. “What we’re going to do is give you quite a large dose of each medication to begin with,” he says as he lines up the first syringe with the port on my IV.

“No! Don’t, Robert, please!” I yell again, just in case he didn’t hear me the other times I asked. I try to pull my arm away, but I can’t move very much at all. The restraints are pretty tight.

“You’re going to feel pretty out of it for a day or so on these medications. You’re probably going to sleep a lot. Don’t worry about anything. We’re going to take care of you. You just work at keeping yourself calm and relaxed,” he says as he finishes with one syringe and begins another.

“I don’t want drugs in me! You’ve got to stop!” I say through clenched teeth. When he doesn’t stop, I let out a growl of frustration.

“It’s going to take about ten to fifteen minutes before you feel the full effects of these drugs,” Robert informs me as he pushes the plunger on the final syringe.

I try the restraints again even though I know they won’t give. I start to sit up, but Robert’s hand on my chest stops me.

“If you don’t lie back, I’m going to have to put the head strap on,” he warns me.

“No, don’t. Don’t do that,” I mumble as I lay back and squeeze my eyes closed. I hear Robert doing things off to my left, but I try to ignore him.

“What I’m going to do now is put a catheter in,” Robert says as he comes up to my left side.

I open my eyes wide, blinking up at him in surprise. “No! No, don’t!” I yell as I look down at his hands and see the clear tubing.

“Do you need the head strap?” Robert asks me, not unkindly.

“No! No, I don’t! But I don’t need that thing, either!” I tell him, my eyes fixated on the catheter hanging from his right hand.

“You’re going to be pretty out of it for the next day, and you’re not going to be able to hold your urine that long,” Robert explains.

“Yes I can!” I nearly squeal as Robert reaches down and pulls my pants down lower on my hips.

“No, Dean, you can’t. I’m sorry, but you need this,” Robert says as he grabs my dick with his left hand, squeezes the end of it, and inserts the catheter.

“No! No! Please stop! Robert, stop!” I scream as I use every muscle in my body to try and get away. “Please stop, please stop, please stop!” It goes so quick that I don’t have much time to complain about it, but it feels awful.

“All done,” Robert says with a smile as I relax down into the hospital bed panting.

I watch as he pulls my pants back up, attaches the end of the catheter to a clear bag, and hangs the bag on the side of the bed. I feel fucking terrible. The drugs are making me queasy already. “My stomach hurts,” I moan at Robert.

“Do you think you’re going to throw up?” he asks, concern evident in his tone of voice.

I shake my head. “No, I just don’t feel good,” I complain.

“Okay, then, I’m going to give you one more shot,” he says as he turns and opens a drawer.

“What now?” I ask, totally sick of this game, and honestly terrified of what’s going to possibly happen to me now.

“It’s just a drug that’s going to help settle your stomach. It’ll work almost right away,” he says as he uncaps the syringe, pokes the needle into my port.

“Oh, good, more drugs,” I say, my words coming out not quite as sarcastically as I'd meant them to. But that's probably because my whole body is feeling more relaxed. It’s the drugs, not me.

“Now I’m going to check in on you every once in a while, but for the most part you’re going to be left alone,” Robert tells me as he stands over me with his hand on my left shoulder.

“No! No, don’t leave me alone!” I say, eyes widening, completely freaking out yet again.

He squeezes my shoulder gently. “You’re going to be fine, Dean. Just work at controlling your breathing, relaxing, and trying to get some rest,” Robert says softly.

I shake my head. “You can’t leave me alone!” I yell at him, eyelids already feeling heavy. I close my eyes when Robert starts to run his fingers through my hair again. How can that simple gesture feel so good and comforting?

“You’re going to be fine,” Robert assures me. “Try and sleep,” he tells me as he runs his hand down to my shoulder, gives it another squeeze.

I open my eyes again as I hear Robert leaving. “Don’t leave! Don’t leave me here! Untie me! Please untie me!” I beg as the door closes.

I let out a groan that turns into a whimper. I should’ve taken those fucking pills. They couldn’t have been that bad, could they? This is horrible! Anything would be better than this. Well, at least he didn’t turn off the lights.

I look around the room now that I’m alone. I’m fucking alone! There are no windows in the room, so I can’t even tell what time of day or night it is. My bed is in the middle of the room, to my left a long countertop extending along the whole wall, to my right the door.

There’s an IV stand to either side of my head, the one on my left connected to me. Surprisingly enough, the walls are white. I guess they don’t want people to be stimulated in here, because there is absolutely nothing of interest to look at unless you get off on IV stands. There are no pictures on the walls, wallpaper, anything.

I let my head flop back onto the bed and squeeze my eyes shut again. I’ve got to calm down. I’m still panting from exerting myself and shouting. There’s definitely no way I’m getting out of this, so I might as well just try and relax. The drugs are already making me feel tired. Oh, and I just noticed that my stomach doesn’t hurt anymore. Go Robert!

My head doesn't feel good. It feels as if there's something pushing my head down. I’m not sure how long it takes, but I finally drift off into a dreamless sleep.

 

**SATURDAY – WEEK 1**

The next day goes by slowly. In between episodes of passing out, Robert visits me to give me more drugs. Most of the time I’m so out of it that I don’t even talk to him. He talks to me, though. He says reassuring things, touches me gently, wipes the drool from the corner of my mouth whenever I sleep with my head turned to one side.

“Good afternoon, Dean,” Dr. Richards says one of the times Robert is in to check up on me.

I turn my head enough to look at the man. He’s standing at my bedside with a clipboard in his hands, flipping through a few of the pages. Fucker.

“Are you willing to take the medication I’ve prescribed to you now, or do we need to keep you in here for another day?” he asks me.

Not another day. I can’t take another day. This is torture, and he knows it. They did this to make me cooperate with taking the pills. I don’t like being manipulated.

“I’ll take them,” I mumble, not sure if what I said was intelligible.

Dr. Richards smiles down at me. “Excellent. We’ll start weaning you down on the medications now, and by tonight you’ll be sleeping in your room,” he tells me.

Does he want me to thank him? If I wasn’t restrained and drugged, I think I would beat the shit out of this guy. I close my eyes and turn away from him.

“Here are the orders, Robert,” Dr. Richards says. “Let me know if you have any more problems with him.”

“Will do,” Robert replies, then I hear the door close. “You’re getting out of here tonight, Dean,” Robert says cheerfully.

How can I be mad at this guy? He’s spent the past twenty-four hours taking care of me while I was as vulnerable as an infant.

Robert walks up to my left side. He’s smiling. “You’ve just got a few more hours in the Pit, and then you can sleep in your own room,” he tells me.

“The Pit?” I ask.

Robert chuckles. “It’s what the patients call this particular room. Nobody likes coming here, obviously,” he says, smile still in place.

“I have no idea why,” I say with a lopsided smile.

Robert puts his hand on my upper arm. “Those drugs should be wearing off to the point where you’ll be a little bit more with it soon, but try to keep calm and relax until tonight. This little trip wears your body out. You need a lot of rest to recover from it,” Robert tells me.

Rest? They’re going to make me sleep after this? I highly doubt I’ll want to sleep after I’ve been in and out of a near coma for the last twenty-four hours. “Okay,” I say anyway.

“I’ll be back in a bit,” Robert says as he leaves me alone yet again.

Each time Robert leaves, my stomach clenches. I don’t freak out as bad as the first time he left me, but I have a hard time each time he leaves. I don’t know what I think is going to happen to me, but I’m alone. I don’t want to be alone.

I drift off again, this time dreaming, but I can’t remember of what when I finally wake to Robert’s voice. “Are you feeling better yet?” he asks me as he pulls a couple of gloves out of a drawer.

I quickly take inventory of my body. “Yeah,” I say with a smile, feeling about halfway back to normal.

“Good,” he says with a big smile as he walks up to the left side of the bed. “I’m going to take your catheter out now,” he says as he pulls my pants down again.

“This isn’t going to feel good, is it?” I ask with a wince.

“Well, it’s not the best feeling in the world, but it’s better coming out than going in, if that helps at all,” he says as he grabs my dick.

I yelp as he starts pulling on the catheter. “No, it definitely doesn’t feel good!” I growl. It’s actually not as bad as I imagined it would be.

“Okay, I’ve got a wheelchair for you right here,” Robert says as he pulls it up to the edge of the bed. “I’m going to help you transfer. You’re going to be wobbly, so go ahead and put as much weight on me as you need to,” he instructs me as he starts to undo the restraints.

I’m so thrilled to be getting out of the restraints, I feel like kissing the man. Robert helps me sit up, and the room decides to spin a little bit on me. I start to fall back, but Robert holds me up.

“You’re doing good. Just take it slow. Keep breathing,” Robert says as he wraps an arm around my midsection. “Scoot to the edge of the bed, touch your toes to the floor, and get a feel for where you are. I won’t let you fall,” he reassures me.

I finally get my feet to the floor, but it doesn’t feel like my legs will hold me up. “I don’t think I can stand up yet,” I tell Robert, looking him in the eye.

“You’re not going to be standing up on your own. I’ve got you. Scoot off the end,” he says confidently.

I do as he says, and he does hold me up. He doesn’t seem to have any problem getting me into the wheelchair, either.

“That wasn’t so bad, was it?” he asks as he puts a pair of slippers on my feet.

I let out a chuckle. “No,” I admit.

Robert steers me out of the room and down the hallway. “Hey, Dean?”

“Yeah?”

“Would you do me a big favor?” he asks as we turn a corner.

“I hope I can,” I say with a smile.

“Would you please just take the medication tomorrow when I give it to you? Some people need to go through what you just went through two or even three times before they finally get the fact that we’re in charge. I’m hoping you’re smarter than that,” he tells me.

“What are the medications going to do to me?” I ask with a wince.

“I will admit that they’re going to make you feel funny. But I can guarantee that it’s nothing compared to what you just went through,” Robert assures me.

“I don’t want to do that again,” I say with a shiver.

“I’d rather you didn’t have to go through that again myself,” Robert says as he squeezes my shoulder.

We finally get to my room and Robert wheels me up to my bed. “I still feel funny,” I warn him.

“And I’m still not going to let you fall,” he tells me as he gets a good hold on me. Between the two of us, I finally get into my own bed. “I left you a book in case you wanted something to read. I’m not quite sure what you’re into, but murder mysteries are pretty popular around here,” he tells me as he pulls my slippers off and puts them on the floor at the end of my bed.

There’s a book sitting on my nightstand. “Thanks, Robert,” I say with a smile.

“Lights go out in a few minutes, but you can read until then if you feel like it. You can request something different tomorrow morning if you don’t like this one,” he says. Robert closes up the wheelchair. “Your physical has been set up for tomorrow at ten a.m. Just come to the nurse’s station and I’ll take you to the infirmary,” Robert says as he heads out the door.

“Okay,” I say on a yawn. I fall asleep hard enough that I never hear the orderly close my door at eleven.

 

**SUNDAY – WEEK 1**

“Dean,” I hear a male voice say.

I slowly wake. It feels like I’ve been sleeping forever. “Yeah?” I reply as I rub my eyes.

“It’s nine a.m. Time for you to be out of bed and dressed. You missed breakfast,” the orderly tells me.

I still feel totally out of it. I feel like I could sleep for another twenty-four hours. “I’m still tired,” I mumble.

“Hospital rules. You’ve got to be out of bed by nine,” the orderly says as he pulls my blanket down off me.

“Okay, okay,” I grumble. “I’m getting up.” The orderly stands back and waits for me. “I said I was getting up,” I tell him, annoyed now that I see he’s just waiting there.

“Out of bed, Dean,” the orderly says as he gestures to the floor beside the bed.

This is getting old fast. Is everyone going to tell me what to do around here? I give him the finger as I sit up in bed. 

The orderly chuckles. “You can hate me all you want, but I’ve still got to get you out of bed,” he says with a smile.

“Fucker,” I mumble as I make my way to the edge of the bed.

“You were in the Pit yesterday, weren’t you?” he asks as he steps closer.

“Yup,” I say with a nod.

“Be careful. This is the first time you’re going to be standing on your own in a couple of days,” he says, sounding concerned.

“I’m fine,” I say as I stand up, then promptly sit back down as my legs wobble.

“Give yourself a minute,” the guy says, hovering.

I stand up again, this time able to stand on my own. “I’m fine,” I tell the orderly.

“Don’t bend over right away,” he says as he grabs my slippers and puts them down in front of my feet.

“Uh, thanks,” I say with a blush. Why does everyone have to be so nice to me? If they were jerks, I could treat them a lot worse, and I would feel so much better.

“Are you steady?” he asks me, hands out and looking ready to catch me.

I nod. “I think so,” I tell him.

He walks over to the dresser on the other side of the room, opens the drawer. “I’m going to take you to the showers. You’ve got a ten o’clock appointment with Dr. Blackstone, so we have to keep moving,” the orderly says as he pulls a fresh pair of scrubs out of the drawer.

I groan. “I was hoping they'd forgotten about me,” I grumble as I rake my fingers through my greasy hair.

The orderly chuckles as he walks up to me and offers his left arm. “Do you need an arm?”

I shake my head. “I think I’m okay to walk,” I tell him, really not wanting to have to lean on this guy just to walk.

The showers are actually just down the hall a little bit from my room. It’s a rather large room. On the wall to my right there are sinks taking up about a third of the wall and stalls with no doors for the toilets and urinals taking up the other two thirds.

To my left are the shower hoses taking up almost the entire wall. There are no stalls or any kind of privacy whatsoever for the shower are. There are little shelves with each hose holding shampoo bottles, shaving cream cans, and bars of soap. To the left of them are the towels stacked and placed into cubbyholes.

“I’ll be right over here by the doorway. Let me know if you need anything or if you’re feeling like you can’t stand any longer,” the orderly tells me as he backs away from me. 

“You really don’t need to stay here. I’m fine,” I tell the orderly.

“I’m afraid you’re stuck with me this morning,” he says with a smile, still completely friendly even though I'm being a bit of an asshole. “You can put your clothes in here,” he says, pointing to a large wheeled cart in front of the cubbyholes. It’s already half filled with other patient’s dirty scrubs and used towels.

I guess I’m not going to get any privacy whatsoever here. “Can I, um,” I say vaguely as I point my thumb over my shoulder at the toilets.

“Sure, just remember that we’re on a schedule,” he tells me as he leans against the doorway.

I get my business done and over with as quickly as I can. It feels so strange sitting here with no door. It's one thing to take a shit while your brother and father are walking around the motel room, but a hell of a lot different when it's a dude I've only just met.

I flush, come out of the stall, kick off my slippers by the cart. I take off the scrubs, feeling totally ridiculous. I can’t believe I’m being watched like a little kid. I try to not think about it as I toss the scrubs into the cart and walk over to the shower heads.

“If you want to shave, there’s a basket of disposable safety razors in that cubbyhole,” the orderly says as he points toward the wall of towels.

“Thanks,” I say with a smile as I reach in and take one.

“Throw it out after you’re done with it. **Do not** get caught outside of the shower room with that razor. You’ll get put on suicide watch if you do,” he warns me.

“Gotcha,” I say, then walk up and turn the water on.

The water feels great. As soon as I get under the spray, I have an urge to stay here all day. I turn it up, getting the water as hot as I can stand it and let the water run over my head a few minutes before I wash up. I try to ignore the fact that I’m not alone. It’s making me feel kind of twitchy and nervous.

As soon as I turn off the water, the orderly hands me a clean towel. “Thanks,” I say as I take it and dry off.

“We’re going to run by the nurse’s station to pick up your meds before we go to the infirmary,” the orderly informs me. I let out another groan. The orderly chuckles at that. “Ah, I think I see the reason you were put in the Pit,” he says with a smile as he takes the towel from me, hands me the scrubs.

“You got it,” I say with a grimace as I pull on the pants.

“Don’t think they won’t put you in there today if you refuse again,” he warns me.

“Yeah, I thought that might be the case,” I say with a wince as I tug the shirt over my head. I get the slippers on and watch as the orderly tosses the towel into the bin.

I walk with him to the nurse’s station. Robert is there again, and he gives me a big smile as I walk up to the counter. “How are you feeling this morning?” he asks as he turns to the medication cart behind him.

“I feel a little funny, but much better than yesterday,” I tell him. 

He puts my cup of meds on the counter. “You’ll get used to the feeling the medications give you pretty quick,” he tells me. “You’re going to feel funny with them, but just try to stay calm. Make sure and let somebody know if you’re having a hard time, though.”

“Okay,” I say with a smile. I pick up the cup and look down into it. “There are five pills in here!” I nearly scream, eyes wide as I look back up at Robert.

“Dean, you’ve got to calm down,” Robert says in a voice that makes me feel good despite how badly I’m freaking out. “You already have most of that in your system from the IV yesterday. These are just the pill forms of those same meds,” he reassures me.

That doesn’t make me feel any better. I feel numb. This is getting into scary territory again. I don’t like this. I let out a whimper as I stare down at the pills. “I can’t--”

“Dean,” Robert says in an authoritative tone of voice that instantly makes me look up at him. “You only have two choices here. You can either take the pills willingly or we set you up on the IV again,” he tells me.

“It’s really not as bad as you’re thinking, Dean,” the orderly says from somewhere to my left.

“Do you need a cup of water?” Robert asks me.

I shake my head no. “No, I’ll take them,” I say, still dazed, as I turn and start to walk away, cup in hand.

“Come back here, please,” I hear Robert say before I even get two steps away.

I turn and look up at him. “What?”

“I’ve got to watch you take them,” he says. I make a face at him. “And I’m going to look in your mouth afterward, so no hiding them under your tongue.”

I let out a groan. I really don’t want to take these fucking pills. “Can I talk to Dr. Richards about this?” I ask hopefully.

“You need an appointment. Besides that, you’re going to be late for your physical if you don’t go ahead and take the pills right now,” Robert warns me.

“Can I wait to take them until after I get an appointment with him?” I ask with a wince. I’m getting nowhere fast.

“No,” Robert says as he shakes his head. “This is the last chance I’m giving you to take the pills, Dean. Take them now or you’re going back on the IV,” he threatens.

“What are they going to do to me?” I ask, still not quite willing to take them, but scared he’s going to take me back to the Pit.

Robert turns to his left. “Mike, can you help me take Dean down to the IV room?”

“No! No! Don’t! I’ll take them! I’m taking them!” I yell, then dump the pills into my mouth, swallow them quickly. “I took them! I took them!” I inform Robert rather loudly.

Robert turns back to me. He smiles, looking relieved as I open my mouth and lift my tongue for him. He holds out his hand for the cup, and I shakily give it to him. “Thank you, Dean,” he says. “Now you two need to get going. You’re going to be a couple minutes late for your appointment,” he tells us.

“Come on, Dean,” the orderly says as he gives my shirt sleeve a tug.

I turn and follow him down the hallway. I sure miss doing whatever I felt like doing, not being told what to do constantly. I miss being outside. I even miss being in shitty little hotel rooms. I wonder what Sam’s doing. 

The orderly uses a keycard to open a door and gestures for me to go in first. I walk into a large room that’s brightly lit, as the rest of the hospital seems to be, too. There are four hospital beds on each side of the room with curtains for each bed. There are two people in the beds already, but all the curtains are left open.

A nurse standing at the farthest bed puts a clipboard down on the table at the end of the bed and turns to us. He smiles as he walks up to us. “Dean?”

“Yup,” I say. I am so fucking nervous I’m about ready to run out of here screaming. I haven’t stopped shaking from the whole pill incident, and I think it’s even worse now. I hate doctors. I don’t need a physical. I’m fine.

“Go ahead and step on the scale for me,” he instructs me as he gestures toward the scale on my right. He takes a clipboard from a table at the end of the first bed on the left, then comes over to look at my weight.

I slowly get onto the scale, shaking as I do so and wondering if the nurse can hear my ragged breathing. God, I’m pathetic. I watch the nurse’s hand as he moves the weights to the appropriate places, notice that I’ve lost six pounds since the last time I was on a scale, which was just before all this shit started happening.

“Okay,” the nurse says as he writes down my weight. “Follow me, please,” he says with a pleasant tone that any other time would probably relax me.

He walks to the first bed on the left, and I stand next to the orderly who brought me, trying not to look like a deer caught in the headlights.

“If you’ll get on the bed for me, I can get your vitals,” the nurse tells me with a warm smile.

I lift myself back onto the table, wonder if the guy can see my hands shaking. I just know he has to hear my breathing as heavy as it is. I glance at the orderly, and he just smiles at me.

I cringe as I try not to think about the doctor coming in. Can’t the nurse just tell me I’m fine, and then let us go?

The blood pressure cuff goes on and starts to strangle my left arm as the nurse puts his stethoscope on and listens underneath the cuff.

He frowns as he releases the air in the cuff. “Your pressure is pretty high,” he says as he writes something down on his clipboard. He then takes my pulse, frowning again before writing it down.

I’m trying to calm down. I really am. I just hate all this shit. This is why I never go to the doctor or go to hospitals if I can help it.

“Okay, go ahead and get undressed. You can get back up on the bed when you’re through. The doctor will be in soon,” he says, and then leaves me alone with the orderly once more.

The orderly closes the curtain around the bed. “Hand me the scrubs,” he tells me as I slide down off the bed. 

I pull of my clothes, hand them to the orderly as asked, and then pull myself backward up onto the bed. I hunch over, wrap my arms around my stomach. Well don’t I feel incredibly ridiculous waiting here naked on the hospital bed.

Is it just me, or are the medications already hurting my stomach? Does it really have to be so cold in here? I swear my hands are turning blue. The orderly folds up my scrubs and sets them on the table at the end of the bed.

“I’m, uh, not so good with doctors,” I say with a bit of a chuckle.

“Robert figured as much. That’s why he sent me down here with you. If you have any trouble or you feel like you’re going to throw up, let me know. I’ll do whatever I can to help you,” the orderly reassures me.

I wish I wasn’t a jerk to him earlier. Now I feel awful about it. This guy is being really nice to me. “What’s your name?” I ask.

“Marcus,” he replies, seeming happy that I asked.

“Hi, Marcus,” I say with a smile.

He chuckles. “You’re going to be fine. Dr. Blackstone is really a pretty nice guy,” Marcus tells me.

I wish this could just be over. This waiting is nearly killing me. I hear footsteps coming toward us and figure it’s the doctor. The curtain opens, and a man about two inches taller than me walks in with confidence in a white coat on a lanky frame. “Hello, Dean,” the man says with a friendly smile.

“Hey,” I say almost shyly. I want out. Somebody get me out of here.

The doctor closes the curtain behind himself. He turns to look at me with dark brown eyes, crow’s feet in the corners. It isn’t until now that I notice the doctor is probably in his late fifties. “My name is Dan. How are you doing this beautiful morning?” he asks in a cheerful tone.

“Okay,” I say with a grimace as he picks the clipboard up off the table.

“So, this will be your first physical in...,” he starts as he begins flipping through the clipboard.

“Oh, I don’t know as I’ve ever had a full physical. I kind of, um, stay away from doctors,” I say with a wince, unsure of how that will go over with the man.

“Ah,” he says as he looks up from the chart. “You’re the type that only comes in when something’s wrong, then,” he says with a smile.

“Well, not even then,” I say with a nervous chuckle.

The doctor laughs at that. He looks down at the chart again. “So have you had any serious medical problems, hospitalizations, things like that?” he asks as he puts the chart down on the bed to my left and puts on some gloves.

I shake my head. I suppose I’m lying, but if I tell him some of the things I’ve had happen to me, he’d probably put me on more medications. There’s no way I can tell them about my heart.

“How have you been feeling lately? Any cough or cold symptoms, fever, chills?” he asks as he takes a step towards me.

“No, sir,” I say politely as he reaches out and starts to feel my neck. I feel like kicking him away. I don’t want to be here. My stomach hurts. I just want to go back to my room.

“Do you get sick very often?” he asks as he finishes fingering my neck, puts his stethoscope in his ears.

“No, sir,” I say again. I don’t know why I’m being so ridiculous. What is this man really going to do to me?

“Take deep breaths for me,” he says as he starts putting the stethoscope over various spots on my chest. Why does everything have to be so cold?

I do as he tells me. At least I try to do as he tells me. The breaths don’t seem to want to be deep even though I try. He starts in on my back, and I continue trying to take big breaths.

“Any problems with shortness of breath or cough when you exercise?” he asks while he moves the stethoscope over my back.

I shake my head. “No, sir,” I say, just wanting this to be over.

“Any ear infections as a kid?” he asks as he picks up an otoscope with his right hand, holds onto my chin with his left.

“I don’t think so,” I say stupidly. I don’t remember Dad ever mentioning that I had a lot of ear infections, but I’m just not sure.

He turns my head to my right, looks in my left ear. “No, this looks fine,” he comments as he pulls the thing out, turns my head, sticks it in my right ear.

I would actually appreciate it if he would stop touching me anytime soon now. The doctor puts the otoscope back on its little rack, and then writes something down on the clipboard.

“Open your mouth for me,” he says, quickly takes a look.

The doctor pulls a penlight out of his right jacket pocket and shines it in my mouth. Then his fingers are in my mouth running along my teeth. When he takes his fingers out, I close my mouth to the awful taste of latex lingering on my teeth.

“Tilt your head back, so I can look in your nose,” he says as he cups the back of my head with his left hand. He holds my head gently as he looks up both nostrils, penlight in hand. He then drops the penlight back into his pocket. “Lift up for me,” he says as he starts to take my right hand. “Any pain when I push here?” he asks as he keeps fingering my left underarm.

“No, sir,” I say with a shake of my head, and then he puts my arm down.

He does the same thing with my right arm. “Okay, go ahead and lie down on the bed for me,” the doctor says.

I glance over at Marcus. I feel like asking him to save me. I slowly do as the doctor instructed me to. The doctor takes his time feeling around my stomach and pushing pretty deep in places. I try not to jump when some of the places near my ribs tickle. Sam knows those places all too well.

“Do you have any trouble with nausea, vomiting, or diarrhea?” he asks me as he continues feeling my stomach.

“Not usually,” I tell him. “I’ve had some trouble with my stomach hurting from the medications they give me here,” I say with a frown.

“That’s perfectly normal,” he tells me. “Your stomach should get used to the medications after a while of being on them.”

I try not to think about the fact that what he said sounds long-term. The doctor wraps his hands around my hips then, shifting them a bit and feeling around. It’s another ticklish spot, and I wince as I try not to chuckle.

“Do you have any trouble with urinary tract or yeast infections?” the doctor asks as his hand wraps around my dick.

I squeeze my eyes shut and try to not think about the fact that a doctor is pulling my foreskin back. “No, sir,” I say, trying to not let my voice waver.

“No pain with urination or sexual intercourse?” he asks as he then pulls the foreskin out as far as it will go.

“No, sir,” I tell him.

He expects me to continue talking with him as he plays around with my dick? I tense a little when I feel his fingers on my balls. I don’t know if he can tell that I’m upset about this, but I really am trying to relax.

I don’t like this. He’s got to stop soon, right? This is ridiculous. Does he really need to be touching me this much? I remind myself that Marcus is right here. This must be normal or Marcus would have something to say about it, right?

“I’m going to take a urethral swab now to check for STDs,” the doctor says.

I keep my eyes closed. I don’t want to see what it looks like. I hear him unscrew the cap off a bottle, then his left hand takes a hold of my dick again. He squeezes the end, and I cringe as I feel a swab dip inside and swipe around twice. That did not feel good. It was nowhere near as bad as the catheter, but I don’t want to do this again anytime soon.

I hear the doctor drop the swab into the container and screw the top back on. I think he drops it into his coat pocket. “Any trouble with your knees or ankles?” the doctor asks as he finally moves down to feeling my thighs and lower legs.

“No, sir,” I say.

“Go ahead and stand up,” the doctor tells me.

I sit up slowly as I still feel a little bit fuzzy. Once on my feet, the guy goes right back to my groin, pushing in deeper than I thought possible. I grip the bed behind me with both hands so I don’t smack the guy.

Then the doctor steps over to a metal tray that I hadn’t noticed was there before. “Last part and then we’re done,” the doctor says as he picks up a tube of lube off the tray and squirts some on his gloved fingers.

Okay that’s a surprise. I hadn’t been expecting that. I let out a nervous chuckle. “They already did that downstairs. You don’t need to do it again,” I assure the doctor, a chill going down my spine.

He smiles at me, not unkindly. “What they did was a cavity search, Dean. I need to check not only your anal tone, but also your prostate,” he explains calmly.

I don’t want to do this again. Why do I have to keep doing things I really don’t want to do? I look over at Marcus.

“Do you need me to hold you down?” he asks, making it sound surprisingly non-threatening. It looks like I’m not getting out of this one.

“Turn around and rest your upper body on the bed,” Dan instructs.

I don’t have a choice. If I refuse, they’re just going to hold me down and do what they want anyway. I turn around slowly and bend over. I feel the doctor’s left hand on my back, and he pushes me until my chest is flat against the bed. I rest my forehead on the bed, squeeze my eyes shut.

I feel the doctor spread my cheeks with one hand. “Relax and this’ll be over real quick,” the doctor assures me.

Oh yeah, almost forgot about the relaxing part. I can do this. I force myself to relax as much as I can, but then I feel his fingers at my entrance and tense up all over again. I don’t like this.

“Relax, Dean,” the doctor says again.

I take in a semi-deep breath and let it out. The doctor takes that opportunity to push in, and I wince at the feeling of cold lube and a finger inside me yet again. I grit my teeth and just try to hold still and relax.

“You’re doing good,” he assures me.

I can’t help the gasp that escapes my lips when he starts fingering my prostate. I try not to arch away from him, but it’s difficult.

He pulls his fingers out, but his left hand still holds me down. “Stay down while I get something to wipe the lube away,” he says.

I cringe as a wet baby wipe runs over my entire crack. That was actually pretty thoughtful of him to get rid of the lube for me.

“Okay, everything looks normal so far,” the doctor tells me as he pulls the gloves off of his hands. I stand up and turn around. “I’ll let you know if anything turns up on the blood work and STD screens, but as far as I can see, you’re healthy,” the doctor says with a smile.

I shake my head. “I didn’t get any blood taken,” I tell him.

“Robert took some blood while you were knocked out the other day,” Marcus tells me. “He saw how upset you got over needles, and he figured it would be it good opportunity to get it over and done with.”

“Oh,” I say. Well, although intrusive, I’m glad that it’s done.

“Okay, I’m done with the torture. You can get dressed and get out of here,” the doctor says with a big smile, and then leaves Marcus alone with me.

Did I just survive a full physical? I feel tired. I wonder if they allow you to take naps around here. I never want to go through that again. That was awful.

“Do you need help getting dressed, Dean?” Marcus asks softly.

It isn’t until then that I realize I’ve been standing here staring at the floor since the doctor left. I shake my head. “No,” I say just as softly. Marcus hands me my clothes, and I slowly slip into them. I feel so weird. Being here has just been so different from anything else I’ve ever experienced. I’ve been through a lot in my life, but this is upsetting.

“Do you want to shower again?” Marcus asks me as we head toward the door.

I let out a chuckle. He must know I feel miserable if he asked me that. Or maybe I’m not the only one who feels disgusting after a physical. “No, but thanks,” I say kindly.

“Lunch is going to be served in a little over an hour. Do you want to read in your room until then?” he asks me as we walk down the large hallway.

“Yeah, that sounds nice, actually,” I say with a small smile.

We get to my room, and Marcus makes sure I make it to the bed okay. “If you need anything, just come to the nurse’s station,” he tells me, then leaves me alone.

I flop back onto the bed and cover my face with my hands. I feel like shit. This has to be the medications kicking in, because I just feel awful. I’m really sick to my stomach, there’s a buzzing feeling deep inside me, and I feel a little cold. Of course this whole place feels cold to me. They’re trying to freeze us out.

I want out. That’s all I can think about. I want out of this place, and I want to see my brother again. I want to drive my car. I want to listen to music. I want these drugs out of my system. I wish my dad was here. He’d have me out by now.

“Dean,” Robert’s voice calls to me from what seems like far away. “You fell asleep, Dean. It’s time for lunch.”

I crack my eyes open a bit and look up at Robert standing over my bed. I let out a low groan. My stomach hurts even worse now.

“You okay?” he asks, concerned.

“My stomach,” I mumble as I turn on my right side and curl in on myself.

“Do you need to throw up?” he asks.

“Almost, but I don’t think I will,” I tell him honestly. “I don’t feel good,” I practically whine at the man. All those symptoms I was complaining about before I fell asleep seem to have intensified.

“Do you think you’re sick, or is it the pills?” he asks me as he sits on the edge of the bed and feels my forehead with the back of his right hand.

“The pills,” I practically spit at him.

“Okay, you’re probably not going to feel good for at least a few days. You body is going to get used to them, though, so don’t worry about it,” Robert tells me as he runs his hand up and down my left upper arm. “You need to get some food into you. It’s lunch time. Come with me to the cafeteria,” Robert says as he stands up.

I curl in tighter on myself. “I can’t eat,” I say as I squeeze my eyes shut. Everything looks a little funny. It’s not as bad as when I had the shots in me, but things just don’t look right. I can’t explain it.

“Your stomach would feel better if you ate a little something,” Robert prods.

I shake my head. “No, I don’t want to eat. I don’t feel good,” I tell him again like he doesn’t know.

“You already missed breakfast. You need to eat, Dean,” Robert says.

I look up at him. “Are you going to make me?” I ask.

“No, but we will if you keep refusing,” he tells me.

Great. That’ll be fun. If the pills keep making me feel like this, I’m never going to want to eat. “Leave me alone, please,” I mumble as I cover my face with my hands. I’m being as polite as I possibly can in this situation. I hope Robert appreciates it.

I hear him let out a sigh. “Okay, but let me know if you need anything, okay?”

“Okay,” I moan.

They can’t do this to me, can they? I feel fucking horrible! I can’t believe this is supposed to make me better. I wish they would turn the lights off in the room during the day. They’re hurting my eyes. I fall asleep complaining to myself.

“Dean, you need to get up this time,” I hear Robert again.

Why won’t he leave me alone? This time my mouth feels dry. My tongue sticks to the roof of my mouth until I swallow a couple of times to get the saliva moving again. “I don’t feel good,” I tell him again.

“You have group in five minutes. You need to get up for that,” Robert says.

“Don’t want to,” I say from underneath my hands.

“This one isn’t optional. I’ve got to get you up,” Robert insists. He then reaches down and sits me up. Robert is even stronger than he looks.

“But I don’t feel good! I’m dizzy, my stomach hurts, and I think I might throw up this time,” I tell him. I think I’m whining, but I couldn’t care less at the moment.

Robert doesn’t let go of me. “I know you don’t feel good, but you have to get up,” he says as he swings me into a sitting position with my feet on the floor.

As Robert puts my slippers on my feet, I let my upper body flop back onto the bed. “I feel like shit!” I practically wail at him. If I didn’t feel like shit, I would be laughing at the drama.

Robert doesn’t miss a beat. He just grabs me by the arm and hauls me back up to a sitting position again. He then puts his arm around my midsection. “Stand up for me,” Robert says as he pulls me up.

He’s not going to let me get out of this. Is group therapy really that important? I whimper as I stand up. “I don’t want to go,” I tell him as I give him my most pathetic, puppy look. I’m sure it’s not nearly as cute and irresistible as Sam’s, but I haven’t got much to work with here. I’m not used to begging.

“Can you stand on your own?” he asks me once we’re fully up.

“Yeah,” I grudgingly admit even though I would rather tell him that I’m too sick to do anything right now.

He slowly lets go of me, then takes a hold of my left upper arm. “Come with me, Dean,” Robert says patiently. He gently pulls me out into the hallway. “Let me know if you think you’re going to throw up or if you get too dizzy to walk,” he tells me.

“Okay,” I say. Actually I don’t feel bad enough to warrant not walking. I just don’t want to walk. I wrap my arms around my stomach as we go.

Robert walks me into a room off the main hallway that has metal folding chairs set up in a circle in the middle of the room. There are already other patients filling most of the chairs. There is a man in casual dress clothes sitting in one of the seats. I’m assuming he’s the doctor. The room is actually quite large and there are big windows on the back wall. I want to go outside.

The doctor stands up when he sees me. “Hello, Dean,” he says with a smile. 

“Hi, Dr. Morgan,” I say, again with the shyness.

“You can call me Jim,” he says kindly.

Robert helps me to a chair and makes sure I’m sitting down before he leaves me with one last squeeze to my shoulder. “The meds are hitting him hard, so keep an eye on him for me,” I hear Robert say to Jim before he leaves me alone with these strange people.

I look around the circle of people. There are only eleven including me and the doctor. I didn’t realize it would be such a small group. They’re all dressed like me, of course. Every one of them looks confident and like they know what’s going to happen here. I guess that should make me feel better, but it doesn’t.

“Everyone, this is Dean. He’s the newest member of our group. Say hi to him,” Jim says with a kind smile.

Is everyone here looking out for my best interest? This is getting annoying. They’re all too nice and helpful. I hear a rousing chorus of “Hi, Dean” before everyone turns to look at Jim again.

“Dean, since you’re the new guy here, would you like to start us off by saying something that’s on your mind?” Jim asks, seeming interested. He’s got a calming voice.

I look around the room again. My stomach clenches even harder than before. I don’t want to have to deal with this. I feel awful. “Dr. Richards said I didn’t have to participate,” I say, hoping that’ll go over well with Jim. I think I’m squinting. Why does it have to be so bright in here?

“That’s true, you don’t have to. I just thought you might want to,” he offers again.

I shake my head. “Nope,” I say.

“What, no claims of how you were wrongly put in here against your will?” a young guy to my left pipes up. The kid reminds me of Sam when he hit his growth spurt at fourteen. He’s thin, gangly, uncomfortable in his pale skin.

“Joey,” Jim says warningly.

“Well nobody wants to be here. I just wondered what his reasoning was,” Joey says in defense.

I lean forward and rest my elbows on my knees, my face in my hands. I don’t want to be here. This is not going to end well, I can just tell.

“Why don’t you brag to us again about how many times you stabbed your mother, Joey?” a man to my right says, sounding totally bored and like he’d rather be anyplace but here right now. I don’t blame him.

“Okay, guys, let’s change the subject,” Jim says with that warning tone to his voice still there. “Angel, did you get to meet with your family yesterday?” Jim asks.

“Yup,” a guy to my left says. I look over to see a guy that can’t be more than twenty with shaggy, dark hair.

“How did that go?” Jim prompts.

“They were supportive and shit, but they still don’t think I should be let out,” he tells us with a sour face.

“How is your little brother dealing with not being able to visit you because of the under-fourteen restriction?” Jim asks him.

“My mom said he’s really upset about it, but he’s writing me letters, and we talk on the phone once a week,” Angel says.

“What kind of things do you talk about?” Jim asks.

I start to zone out a little. I still hear them, but I feel like shit, and what they’re saying isn’t interesting enough to listen to. I put my face in my hands again and just start thinking about hunts that I’ve been on with Sammy. Then I start to wonder if Sam would visit me if we were a normal family. Then I realize that I wouldn’t be in here if we were a normal family, which just upsets me, so I need to stop thinking about that. But when I stop thinking about that and try to think of hunts again, I start thinking of hunting with Dad and Sammy, which upsets me. I must be sick. I’m just sitting here upsetting myself. I’m so tired.

I feel a hand on my left shoulder. “You almost fell off the chair, dude,” I hear the guy that has his hand on my shoulder tell me.

I lift my head from my hands and squint around the room at everyone. Everybody’s looking at me.

I wince. “Sorry,” I mumble.

“All right, I think that’s enough for today,” Jim says as he stands up. “I’ll go ahead and get Dean back to his room, and I’ll see everybody tomorrow at three o’clock sharp,” he says as he heads for me.

Jim grabs my left upper arm in a strong grip and hauls me out of the chair. “Sorry,” I say again.

“No problem,” he says with a smile. “It’s hard to get used to these new meds,” he tells me like I don’t know.

“I don’t feel good,” I tell him as if he couldn’t tell from my body language.

He starts us walking out the door. “I’ll take you back to your room, and then I’ll tell Robert to leave you alone until it’s time for supper. That’s a little over an hour away,” he tells me as we walk down the hallway toward my room.

We walk silently to my room, and he guides me over to the bed. “Thanks,” I say as he helps me sit down.

“Get some rest,” he says as he gives my arm a squeeze. He then leaves me alone.

I flop into the bed, barely getting my slippers off and my feet up onto the bed. I can’t believe how tired I am. I hate this. I fall asleep complaining to myself again.

“Okay, Dean, it’s time for supper,” Robert says in a cheerful voice.

“No,” I groan into my pillow, of which there is much drool upon. I don’t normally drool this much, do I?

“Yeah, come on,” he says as he walks up to the edge of my bed. “You need to get up now,” he says as he briskly rubs my back.

“I can’t,” I whine, face still smashed into the pillow.

“Yes, you can. Come on. Sit up for me, Dean,” Robert says, still not losing his patience for me. He wraps his hand around my left upper arm and pulls me to the edge of the bed.

“No, I really can’t. I don’t feel good,” I tell him.

“I know you don’t feel good, but you can’t stay in bed all day,” Robert insists.

“I haven’t stayed in bed all day. Just let me stay tonight. I’ll get up tomorrow,” I say, hoping he’ll go for it.

“You need to eat,” Robert says.

“I can’t. My stomach still hurts, and I still feel like shit. Please don’t make me get up,” I ask of him again as I curl onto my right side facing him.

Robert lets out a big sigh. “I want to see you at the nurse’s station by nine a.m. tomorrow morning, no later,” he tells me.

“Okay,” I agree.

“I mean it, Dean. I can’t let you sleep all day like this,” he says, sounding worried.

“Nine o’clock,” I say with a bit of a grin. I got my way. For the first time since I got here, I got my way.

“Goodnight, Dean,” Robert says as he leaves.

I fall asleep hard enough that I miss lights off and the orderly shutting the door again. I wake in the middle of the night from a wicked nightmare. I instantly forget what it’s about, but now my heart is pounding, I’m sweating, and I feel like I’m going to throw up.

I bound out of bed and start pacing the room. I can’t remember anything about the dream. I’m not one for nightmares. I wonder why I had one. It’s got to be because I’m in this horrible place. Maybe it’s the medication. I’ve heard that antipsychotics can give you weird side effects. And there’s no doubt in my mind that they have put me on at least one antipsychotic.

My door’s keycard beeps and the door swings open. “I need you to get in bed, Dean,” an orderly tells me as he comes into the room.

I haven’t seen this guy before. “I just woke up. I needed to move around,” I tell him.

“Well, I need you to get back in bed now,” the orderly says as he crosses his arms over his chest.

I shake my head. “I can’t. I kind of had a nightmare, and I need to stay up. I’m all shaky and my heart’s pounding,” I tell him, feeling stupid for telling this guy I had a nightmare.

“If I have to put in a call to the head nurse, they will sedate you to get you into bed,” the orderly warns me.

“Robert?” I ask.

“Robert is daytime. We’re on the graveyard shift now. The head nurse’s name for the graveyard shift is Greg,” he informs me.

“Oh, well I don’t need to be sedated, but I really would rather not get back in bed. It’s too dark to even read in here,” I complain.

He really doesn’t seem to care. “Are you refusing to get back into bed?” he asks, sounding like this will be my last chance.

I let out a huff. “No,” I growl.

Then the man just stands there with his eyebrow raised like he’s waiting to see if I’ll get in or not, which he is, but it still annoys me.

I don’t want to be sedated. I already feel funny enough from those fucking pills. I don’t need something on top of that. I look up at the clock on the wall. It’s half past one in the morning.

“I’ll go get Greg,” the orderly says as he turns and leaves before I have the chance to say anything. 

I rush to the door to stop him, but only get there in time to have it close in my face. I try the handle only to find it locked. “Fuck!” I yell as I hit the door with the palm of my right hand.

They’re going to give me another shot. I hate shots. I don’t want to do this. Why didn’t I just get back into bed? Maybe I do deserve to be in here if I’m going to be this stupid.

I hear the door beep again, and the orderly comes back in followed by, I assume, Greg. “I’ll get into bed,” I say as I put my hands out in front of me and start to back up. The orderly just keeps coming for me until my back hits the far wall of the room. “I’ll get into bed! I’m sorry I was up! I won’t do it again!” I assure the man rather loudly.

I look over the orderly’s shoulder to see Greg uncapping the syringe. Just as the orderly reaches out for me, I squat down to the floor. The orderly follows me easily as if expecting it, then gets me sprawled out on the floor on my stomach so fast I don’t even know how he does it.

“No! Don’t! I don’t need the shot! I’ll get into bed now!” I tell the men. 

The orderly wrenches my arms up behind me tightly enough and roughly enough that it hurts and I let out a yelp.

“Ouch! Stop! That fucking hurts! Stop! I’ll get in bed! Just let me up! I’ll get in bed!” I keep yelling at them. I feel my pants being yanked down, then the sting of that fucking needle. “No! Stop! You don’t need to do this! I’m sorry!” I yell as I worry they have something else in mind for me now.

Greg tugs my pants back into place. Then the two of them are lifting me up onto the bed. I already feel funny. That loud buzzing is back, and I feel really tired. I don’t feel like this is going to knock me out completely, but I sure want to go to sleep now.

I see Greg raise the bars on my bed on the side facing the far wall. I would guess that’s so I don’t fall out of bed tonight. Then the men leave me. Why do I have to do everything the hard way? I berate myself for maybe ten seconds before I drift off into a dreamless sleep.

 

**MONDAY – WEEK 1**

I wake to the sound of the bars on my bed being lowered. “Hey, Dean,” Robert says, sounding sad.

I squint up at him. I turn over onto my right side so I can see him better. “They sedated me,” I grumble.

“You’ve got to follow orders around here, Dean,” he says as he rubs my left arm. “The graveyard shift isn’t nearly as patient as I am,” he explains.

“I gathered that,” I say as I rub my eyes.

“Okay, it’s nine o’clock now. I need you up and out to the nurse’s station so you can take your meds,” he tells me as he grabs my slippers and puts them on the floor in front of the bed for me.

“You’re still going to make me take those pills even after they sedated me?” I ask with a frown.

“Come on, Dean. Up. Out of bed,” he orders as he grabs my upper left arm, and pulls me into a seated position.

“But the pills make me feel horrible! I thought they were supposed to make me better, not worse,” I complain as I step into the slippers.

“The pills take at least a couple of weeks to kick in,” Robert says as he pulls me out the door. “There are no quick fixes in psychiatry.”

“So I have to feel like shit for at least another couple of weeks?” I ask him as he nearly drags me along.

“Your body will get used to the side effects sooner than that,” he informs me. “Stay here,” he says as he leaves me in front of the nurse’s station. Robert uses his keycard to get into the station, goes to the med cart, and pulls a cup out, puts it up on the counter.

“I don’t want to feel sick again,” I mumble as I look at the cup.

“Come on, Dean. Don’t fight me every day on this, man,” Robert pleads with me. “I know you don’t like them, I know they make you sick, but your only other choice is the IV room, and I don’t think you want that,” he tells me.

No, I certainly don’t want to go to the Pit. I guess I’m just going to have to walk around feeling tired, buzzed, sick to my stomach, and dizzy. Where are you, Sammy?

“Take the pills, Dean,” Robert says as he pushes the cup to the edge of the counter. I grab the cup and down the pills. “Let me see inside your mouth,” he says, so I open my mouth, lift my tongue. “Thank you. Now you’ve got free time until lunch at noon. Almost everybody’s watching a movie right now, but there are cards you can play with if you want to,” he offers.

“Can I go back to my room and read?” I ask him.

Robert shakes his head. “No, I don’t trust you not to go back to sleep. You can get your book and bring it out here to read it, but no reading in your room,” he says.

I grimace. “Okay,” I say, disappointed. Can he read my mind?

I slowly make my way back to my room, grab my book, and saunter out to one of the couches. The couch is actually really comfortable, and the TV isn’t on that loudly. It isn’t long before I nod off.

“Dean,” I hear Robert say, and I jerk awake.

“Sorry,” I mumble as I rub my eyes.

“It’s time for lunch,” he informs me with a smile.

“I’m not hungry,” I tell him, which is a lie, because I’m actually starving, but my stomach hurts like Hell, and the thought of food is nauseating.

“I know you’re lying, Dean. You haven’t eaten a meal since you got here. Come have lunch,” Robert insists.

“Okay. I lied. I am hungry, but my stomach hurts, and even the thought of food is making it hurt worse,” I tell Robert.

“You need to get something in there. I shouldn’t have let you go this long without eating,” he says.

“Don’t make me eat. I know I’ll just throw it up,” I whine up at him. Is it just me, or am I whining quite a lot these days?

“Try for me,” Robert says, then grabs my arm and pulls me to the edge of the couch cushion.

“No! I really don’t want to eat,” I tell him again. “I’ll eat when it’s supper time,” I tell him knowing that I probably won’t want to eat then, either.

He crouches down in front of me. “I want to give you a chance, here. I know you’re fighting everything, and I think I probably would, too, but you need to eat. There will be consequences if you don’t,” he tells me, concern in his tone of voice.

“Don’t make me,” I plead with him.

Robert lets out a sigh. He stands up and heads toward the nurse’s station. “Mike, grab Marcus and come out here, please,” Robert says over the counter.

I feel a fucking big shock of panic go through my system. Are they going to take me to the Pit again? I push myself off the couch and start to sneak behind Robert to go to my room. I don’t know what I think I’m going to do once I get there, though. They do have keycards.

I see Robert turn out of the corner of my eye, and I take off down the hall, Robert coming after me. I make it to the doorway of my room, but that’s as far as I make it. Robert’s big hand wraps around my right arm and pulls me back into the hallway.

“No! Don’t take me back to the Pit!” I scream, not caring that other patients are turning to look at what’s causing the commotion.

I pull hard enough on Robert that the two of us go down to our knees on the tiled floor. “You’re not going to the Pit,” Robert says.

“What?” I ask stupidly, still trying to get away from him.

“We’re taking you to the infirmary, not the Pit,” Robert reassures me as the two orderlies come up behind us.

Each orderly takes one of my arms, and they haul me up off the floor. “Why did you ask for these guys if you’re not taking me to the Pit?” I ask, confused.

Robert heads toward the infirmary. “Because you’re going to fight what the doctor’s going to do to you,” he informs me.

“What’s he going to do to me?” I ask as I try to stand still. The two orderlies end up dragging me. 

Robert continues on down the hallway, pulls out his keycard, and lets himself and us into the infirmary. The doctor is hunched over one of the tables at the end of a bed to my right. He’s flipping through a file, but he looks up when we come in.

“Robert, what’s he going to do to me?” I nearly scream.

Robert walks up to the doctor. “We need an NG tube for Dean,” he tells him quietly enough that I almost miss what he says.

“What’s an NG tube?” I ask, but everyone ignores me.

The doctor walks over to a countertop with drawers underneath on the right side of the room. He gestures to a bed just to the left of himself. “Go ahead and get him strapped in on that bed,” Dr. Blackstone tells Robert.

“No! No! Don’t strap me down! What’s an NG tube?” I yell, trying to get Robert’s attention. “Please don’t strap me down!”

The orderlies get me up onto the bed despite my flailing attempts to get them to let me go and hold me down while Robert secures all the restraints.

“What’s an NG tube? Robert! Robert, what’s an NG tube?” I keep asking him, beginning to pant. Once I’m all strapped down, the orderlies back off and stand at the end of the bed. Robert is on my right, and Dan is on my left side.

Robert puts his hand on my right shoulder and gives it a reassuring squeeze. “It’s a nasogastric tube, Dean. It’s a small tube that goes in your nose and down into your stomach so that we can feed you by a direct line,” he explains to me.

“No! Don’t do that! I’ll eat! I just don’t feel good! I’ll eat!” I yell at Robert as I fight the restraints.

“You had the chance to eat, Dean,” Robert reminds me.

Dan turns to me with a little tube in his hands. “When I start to put this up your nose, I want you to start swallowing. Keep swallowing until it’s all the way in, and try not to cough or choke,” the doctor tells me.

“Try to calm down,” Robert says as he runs the fingers of his left hand through my hair.

“I’m sorry! I’m so sorry! I’ll eat, Robert! Please don’t do this! I swear I’ll eat!” I promise him.

Then Robert’s big hands wrap around my chin and the top of my head. Dan brings the tube up to my nose.

“No!” I yell as loud as I can, fight as hard as I can to turn my head away from the tube.

Then it’s going up my nose. It instantly makes me want to cough and choke and gives me a painful burning sensation in my left nostril.

“No!” I say, then start to gag as I feel it go down my throat.

“Swallow,” Dan reminds me.

I do as he says, hoping to just get it down and over with, but I end up choking on it anyway. I let out a moan that quickly turns into more choking. This feels so horrible I can’t even describe it.

“Calm down, Dean,” Dan says as he tapes the tube down to my cheek.

Robert wipes tears from my cheeks from the choking. “Concentrate on your breathing,” he tells me.

I can’t help but keep gagging. This doesn’t feel right. I squeeze my eyes shut and just try to breathe without choking. I can actually feel it. It’s there in my throat. I want it out.

When I open my eyes, I see Dan hooking a large syringe to the end of my NG tube. It’s filled with something sort of light pink. I’m guessing that’s my lunch for today. He slowly depresses the plunger, and I watch as the pink stuff goes through the tube to my nose.

Robert’s fingers are back in my hair. It’s comforting. I gag a couple more times, but he just continues running his fingers through my hair. It doesn’t take long for the doctor to get all the stuff through the tube.

“I’m going to take the tube out now,” Dan warns me. “It’s going to go real quick.”

He then pulls the tube out so fast it tickles my throat, burns my nose, starts me coughing again. When I finally get the coughing under control, I just lie there panting. If I thought I was worn out before, that was nothing compared to how tired I feel now.

“Just relax here for a minute,” Robert says softly as he wipes a few more tears from my face.

I’m so exhausted. I just want to be left alone. I feel my bottom lip tremble a little as Dad’s face flashes into my mind. Fuck, but I wish he was here. He would’ve taken care of me. This would have never happened if he was still around. I bite my lip and try to keep from letting any more tears fall that can’t be blamed on the choking.

I don’t know if Robert caught the lip trembling, but he sure looks sad. “It’s all over, Dean,” he reassures me.

“Okay, kiddo, we’re going to take off the restraints now. I want you to stay down and relax. Don’t try to get up right away,” Dr. Blackstone instructs me.

“Okay,” I whisper, and even that makes me cough once. My throat feels raw now.

I feel the two men take the restraints off me. I feel like scrambling off the table, but I figure that wouldn’t go over too well with the other four men in the room.

“Sit up slowly for me,” Robert says as Dan starts throwing the NG tube away and cleaning up the countertop. I do as I’m told, amazed when I only feel a little dizzy. “Swing your feet off the bed, and then just sit there for a second before you go any further,” Robert tells me.

I actually don’t feel as bad as I thought I would when I look down at the floor. I wiggle my toes as I wonder where my slippers went this time. Just then Marcus comes over and puts my slippers on my feet for me.

“Thanks,” I croak at him.

“No problem,” he says with a kind smile.

“Can you stand for me?” Robert asks with a small smile.

“Yeah,” I say, voice hoarse. I slowly slide off the bed and onto the floor.

“How does your stomach feel?” Robert asks me.

“Better,” I admit with a wince.

“Good,” Robert says with a smile. “Can you walk with me?”

I nod. “Yeah, I feel okay to walk,” I tell him. I feel awful, and I feel stupid, and I feel tired. Robert lightly grips my right elbow, and together we leave the infirmary. “I don’t suppose you’d let me go back to my room, would you?” I ask him as we get out into the hallway.

“Sorry, but no,” Robert says. “I can’t have you sleeping all day.”

I hear the two orderlies walking behind us. The common room is empty when we get there. The TV is still on. Everybody must be eating lunch in the cafeteria. My book is still on the table next to the couch when we get there.

“Try to stay awake, okay?” Robert asks of me as I sit down on the couch.

“Okay,” I agree, although I really feel out of it.

“Let me know if you need anything. I’ll be in the nurse’s station,” he reminds me, then walks away. The two orderlies follow him through the door to the station.

I grab my book again. I had only gotten about fifteen pages into it before I fell asleep last time. This time I make it to forty-five minutes of casual reading before I fall asleep.

“It’s time for your group therapy, Dean. Let’s go,” Robert says.

I groggily squint up at him. It’s too fucking bright in this place. “Isn’t it a bit ridiculous to go every day?” I ask grumpily as I pick my book up off the floor.

Robert chuckles. “It’s part of the psychiatric process. It’s good for you not only to interact with other people, but to talk about your own problems,” he tells me.

“What are you going to do to me if I refuse to go?” I ask, eyebrow raised.

“Dr. Richards will up the dosage on your meds until you’re more compliant,” he says.

Fuck,” I grumble. There’s no way in Hell I want that to happen.

“Come on. I’ll walk with you,” he offers.

I slowly get up and we start to head toward the meeting room. “Don’t you have anything better to do than deal with a shithead like me?” I ask with a chuckle.

Robert laughs. “You’re not half as bad as a few of the patients I’ve in my time here,” he tells me.

“Really? I’ll have to work harder, then,” I say with a grin.

Robert laughs again. “You’re doing just fine, Dean. It’s hard to transition to life here,” he tells me.

I let out a huff. “That’s an understatement,” I mumble.

We get to the door and Robert turns to face me, back to the doorway. “Do me a favor, and at least try to participate,” he says with a wince.

I let out a moan. “It’s so fucking stupid,” I complain.

“I know it feels that way, but the more you actively participate in your well being, the faster you get better,” he informs me.

“I don’t like talking about my life,” I tell Robert.

“Just try it. Pick something small that doesn’t feel like a very big deal to you, and just tell them. You can stop any time you want. Jim’s not going to push anything. He might try to draw you out, ask questions, but try to stay calm, and just tell them how you’re feeling,” Robert says.

“Okay,” I say, even though I really don’t feel like it.

“See you later,” Robert says with a smile as he leaves me standing in front of the doorway.

I don’t want to talk about anything. In fact, I don’t want to listen to the shit these people talk about, either. I want to go to bed. I want out. I want to see Sam. I want to hunt something, feel useful.

I walk into the room feeling really nervous. I choose a seat facing the doorway, watch as two more patients file in and sit down.

Jim is standing to the right of me, shuffling through some files on a countertop against the wall. He looks at his watch, sets the folders down, and turns to the group. He looks at me, smiles, then goes and sits in the empty chair two chairs to my right.

“Good afternoon everybody,” Jim says with a smile. “Today I thought we would start off with a little bit about our families. I know we’ve talked about this before,” he says when a few of the patients grumble, “but I thought we’d get a little specific. Sonny, can you tell me a little bit about your dad?” Jim asks as he turns to the guy directly to my right.

“My dad’s an asshole,” Sonny says. A few of the patients chuckle. “I mean it. He drinks every day, yelled at us kids whenever he had the chance, and is, in general, an asshole,” he tells everyone with a shrug of his shoulders.

“So I’m guessing you don’t have a good relationship with him, do you,” Jim says rather than asks.

“You bet I don’t,” Sonny says.

Jim looks at me and my stomach clenches. “Dean, would you like to tell us a little bit about your dad?” he asks me.

I start to shake my head, but then I remember that I told Robert I would try and talk to the group. “My dad’s dead,” I say, the words making my chest tighten in a way I thought I was done and over with.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Jim says, looking genuinely upset for me. “When did he die?”

“This past year,” I say. Okay, this really shouldn’t be hurting as much as it is.

“How did he die?” Jim asks.

“A semi ran into us on the freeway,” I say, trying to control my breathing. I don’t want to talk about this. I wish he would shut the fuck up.

“You were in the car, too?”

I nod. “My brother and I were in the car,” I tell him.

Jim shifts in his chair, puts his right leg over his left. “Is your brother okay?”

“Yeah, he actually wasn’t hurt too badly. My dad and I got the worst of it. I had to be resuscitated at the hospital, and I lost a lot of blood,” I say, conveniently leaving out how I lost so much blood in the first place. I’ll just let him think it was all from the accident.

“How are you dealing with the fact that you lived and your father died?” Jim asks softly.

Ouch. “I’m okay,” I insist flatly. I don’t want to be here anymore. This hurts too much. Why can’t they just shut the fuck up and leave me alone?

Jim nods, and for a moment I wonder if he’s going to call me on it. “How was your relationship with your father?” he asks instead.

“Good,” I say as I focus on one of the buttons on Jim’s shirt. It’s one of those pearly buttons that reflects the light and looks kind of cool.

“What kind of person was your father?” Jim asks me, still using soft tones.

I look down at the floor in front of Jim. “He was a good guy,” I finally say.

“How did your brother handle it?”

I smile a bit, but it quickly leaves my face. “My brother handled it about as well as anyone can. He was mostly worried about me, though,” I admit.

“Why was he worried about you?”

“I don’t know. I guess he thought I should have cried, gotten all emotional over the whole thing,” I tell him.

“Do you talk to your brother about your dad?” Jim asks.

“Sam will jump on me about him every once in a while, but no, we don’t usually sit around and talk about him,” I say, eyes still on the floor.

“When Sam jumps on you, how do you react?”

I wince at that. “I usually yell at him. I hit him once,” I say, feeling like a jerk.

“Do you tend to hit him when you’re angry?”

I look up at Jim and shake my head. “I only hit him once,” I say again, as if that makes it okay.

“What was his reaction? Did he hit you back?” Jim asks me, eyebrow raised.

“No, he just took it,” I say, looking back down to the floor.

“Do you and your brother fight often?”

“We’re actually really close, but we do get into fights every once in a while,” I admit.

“Have you always been close?”

I nod. “My mom died when I was four and Sammy was a baby. The three of us guys were on our own after that, and we got pretty close,” I explain to him.

“So what was home life like for the Winchesters?”

Isn’t he going to ask anyone else questions? Why is he picking on me? “It was okay. We moved around a lot. I never got through a school year in one place,” I tell him with a bit of a smile.

“I bet it was hard to have friends with all the moving around you did,” Jim observes.

I nod. “We had each other,” I say confidently.

“So what did the three of you do for fun when you were younger? Did any of you have hobbies or anything that you did together?” Jim asks me.

I look down at my hands again. I don’t feel like making up stuff, but I don’t want to get my meds upped, either, for telling them what we really did. I’m so tired. My stomach is hurting again. I just want to go to bed. I hate feeling like this. I hate being questioned and worrying that my answers could possibly be used against me in the future. I run a hand over my face.

Jim looks at his watch. “Well, I think that’s enough for today,” he says much to my relief. Was he able to tell I was done?

All of the patients get up and start leaving the room. I slowly get up, stretching and feeling dizzy as I do so.

“I’ll see you tomorrow morning at ten, Dean,” Jim says with a pleasant smile.

“You will?” I ask, eyebrow raised.

“Yup, you’ve got an appointment with me. It should be on your schedule just outside your door,” Jim says.

“Oh, I haven’t looked at that yet,” I say with a wince.

“Keep an eye on it,” Jim tells me with a smile. “See you tomorrow,” he says as he walks back over to the countertop.

“Bye,” I say as I head out the door. Now what do I do? I can’t go back to my room because Robert doesn’t want me sleeping the day away even though that’s all I want to do right about now. 

I walk back to the common area and see my book still sitting on the table next to the couch. I shrug and walk over, flop down on the couch, start to read. It’s five o’clock quicker than I think it should be, and all the patients start to migrate toward the cafeteria.

I look back down at the book so I can read up to the end of a chapter. Suddenly Robert is looming over me. I give him a sheepish grin.

“It’s time for supper. You need some help up?” he asks as he holds out a hand.

I chuckle at him. “I’ll eat. You don’t need to drag me there,” I say with a smile as I put the book down on the couch to my left.

“Come on. I’ll walk you there,” Robert says as he reaches down and takes my right hand, helps me up.

“I’m not anorexic,” I tell him. “Really,” I try to convince him as we walk down the hallway.

“I believe you,” Robert tells me.

“Yeah, I can really feel the trust when you’re practically dragging me to the cafeteria,” I say sarcastically, and Robert chuckles.

The cafeteria is smaller than I had thought it would be. It’s just one room with a bunch of tables and chairs like any other cafeteria, just smaller than expected. There are orderlies handing out trays from a wheeled cart. There aren’t that many people in here. 

“See you,” Robert says as I sit down at a table.

I smile at him. An orderly sets a tray in front of me, and my stomach instantly clenches. It’s not the food. I’m sure the food is good. But the thought of putting something in my stomach right now just makes it hurt worse.

“You don’t have to eat the whole tray,” Marcus says.

I hadn’t even noticed he was the one that gave me the tray. “Thanks, Marcus,” I say with a grimace.

The tray is filled with meatloaf, mashed potatoes, green beans, and a little cup of mixed fruit. I pick up the fork, then glare at the food. They’re just going to take me to the infirmary again if I don’t eat. I have to eat.

I try the mashed potatoes, figuring they’ll be the easiest on my stomach. They actually go down okay, so I eat a little more. It seems as I eat, my stomach begins to feel a little bit better. I eat half the tray, then decide to stop. I don’t want to overdo it.

I watch another patient take his tray back over to the cart and slide it on one of the shelves, so I do the same with mine. By the time I get back out to the common area, there are a few guys watching TV. I take my regular seat on the couch and pick up my book again.

It only takes about fifteen minutes for my stomach to slowly hurt to the point where I feel like I’m going to throw up. I put the book down on the table and start to walk toward the shower room.

I make it just in time to lose my supper in the first toilet on the right. When I’m done heaving, I rest my head on my arms which are draped over the toilet seat and just breathe.

I feel someone rubbing my back. “Did you get it all out?” Robert asks.

I instantly panic. “I didn’t mean to! I’m sorry!” I say as I start to turn around, but then fall flat on my ass against the left wall of the stall, bump my head on the way. “Don’t give me the NG tube!”

“Hey, calm down,” Robert says, then crouches down in front of me, starts wiping my face down with a wet washcloth.

“I didn’t mean to throw up!” I tell him again, desperate tone to my voice. I’m shaking really badly.

“Dean, calm down. I believe you,” Robert assures me. “Did you get it all out? Can you get up yet?” he asks me.

I try to calm myself down. “I think so,” I tell him.

Robert helps me stand up. “Let’s go back to your room,” he says as he gets a good hold on my arm and guides me out of the shower room.

I’m so shaky I can barely walk a straight line, but Robert’s holding me up. We get to my room and he helps me up onto the bed, takes my slippers off, puts them at the end of the bed on the floor.

“Do you feel like you might throw up again?” he asks me.

“I don’t think I have anything left to throw up,” I say with a nervous chuckle.

“I’ll be right back,” he says, then leaves me alone.

I curl up on my right side, wrap my arms around my stomach. I feel horrible. When Robert comes back in, he’s got gloves on and he’s holding a vomit basin in one hand, a bottle of water in the other.

“Hold this,” he says, handing me the basin. “I want you to drink a couple of sips of this water, then stop,” he tells me as he hands me the bottle.

My stomach hurts so badly that I don’t think it can even handle the water. Of course my being upset doesn’t help matters any. I take two small sips of the water, hand the bottle back to Robert. “I can’t keep taking these pills,” I moan.

“I already talked to Dr. Richards. He’s changing your medications. He’s adding a pill that’ll help your stomach,” Robert informs me.

“That’s all he’s doing is adding a pill? I still have to take all the others?” I whine.

“Yeah, you still do,” Robert says, sounding disappointed for me.

I feel it coming up again. I sit up, hold the basin by my face, and start to dry heave. It hurts so much that my eyes start to water.

When the dry heaving subsides, Robert takes the basin from me and sets it on the bedside table. He then pulls a little package out of his pocket and starts to break it open.

“What’s that?” I ask, wary of anything they try to do to me these days.

“It’s a suppository,” he tells me as he pulls it out of the package.

I instantly straighten out and roll onto my back. “I don’t need that!” I tell him quite emphatically.

“Roll over for me, Dean,” Robert says as he gestures with his hand.

I shake my head. “No, I don’t need it! I’m fine now!”

Robert chuckles. “You’re not fine. You need the suppository so you’ll stop throwing up,” he tells me.

“But I stopped!” I insist.

Then Robert grabs my left leg behind my knee and gets me onto my right side again. He kneels on the bed with his left knee, wraps his left arm around my back, and leans his entire upper body against mine.

“No! Stop! Robert, stop!” I plead with him as I try to squirm out of his grip. Then I feel him lower my pants with his right hand. “No!” I yell as I feel Robert push the suppository between my cheeks. I yelp as he finally pushes it past my sphincter.

“Do not push this out, Dean,” Robert says in an authoritative voice, finger still inside of me. “If you push this out, I’ll just put another one in. Is that understood?”

“Yes, sir,” I mumble into my pillow.

He pulls his finger out, pulls my pants back up, and gets off of me. He takes the gloves off and holds them in his left hand. “This is going to help your stomach,” Robert says as he rubs my left upper arm.

“Okay,” I whisper, face still in the pillow. I’m so sick of all this. I have no choices left for myself on anything. And now my bottom lip is trembling again. I’m so fucking tired.

Robert crouches down, cups the back of my head in his hand, rubs his thumb gently through my hair. “Everything’s going to be okay, Dean,” Robert says softly.

Suddenly my pillow is wet with warm tears. “I want out,” I say softly, then sniffle.

Robert just keeps rubbing my head. “Things are going to get better. Just hold on for me, okay?”

“’k,” I say, sniffle again.

“I want you to rest here for about fifteen, twenty minutes, but then I want you to come out to the common area,” Robert tells me.

“But I don’t feel good,” I moan.

“The suppository will kick in, and you’ll start feeling better,” he assures me. His hand travels down to my shoulder, rubs it a few times, squeezes. “I’m going to go back out to the nurse’s station. You come and get me if you need anything, okay?”

“’k,” I say even though I don’t want to leave this room for any reason.

Robert gives my shoulder one last squeeze, then he’s gone. I angrily wipe my eyes, berating myself for being such a big baby. Robert really shouldn’t have left me alone because I fall asleep within minutes of him leaving.

I wake to the feel of someone shaking my leg. “Come out and watch a movie,” Robert says as if I’ll be excited to do so.

I moan and turn over, facing away from him. “I’m too tired,” I mumble into my pillow.

“How’s your stomach?” he asks me as he begins rubbing my right side.

Well, I hadn’t thought of it until he said it, but it feels okay. “Better,” I admit.

“Does it still feel a little funny?”

“Yeah, but I don’t feel like I’m going to throw up anymore,” I tell him.

“Good. Now come out here and watch the movie,” he says as he shakes my side.

“Go bug one of your other patients,” I grumble as I pull the pillow over my head.

“Come on. Up. Watch the movie, and then I’ll let you go to bed,” he says as he starts to pull me into a seated position.

“Don’t you ever go home?” I ask grumpily as he pulls me out of bed.

Robert chuckles. “Nurses have long hours, not including the overtime. There are times I pull sixteen-hour shifts,” he tells me.

“There’s no way I could do that,” I say with a sour face.

“I love my job, so it’s not a problem for me,” he says with a smile.

I get my slippers on, follow Robert out into the hallway. “I’ve got to take a leak,” I say as I start to head to the shower room.

“Don’t sneak back into your room when you’re done. I’ll come find you,” Robert threatens, eyebrow raised.

I chuckle at him, turn around, roll my eyes. I use the shower room, go out to the common area, take my place on the couch, and watch the stupid movie. It’s another old black and white. I guess newer flicks are too exciting for the mentally disturbed. I nod off a couple of times, but manage to see most of the movie. It’s still two hours to lights off, but Robert promised I could go to bed.

“Goodnight, Dean,” Robert says with a smile as I walk by the nurse’s station.

I give him a smile. I never thought I would be excited to be allowed to go to bed. I wake up at one o’clock in the morning this time. I’m sweating, heart pounding, panting. I jump out of bed, go stand by my window. I can see the moon from here. It’s a little cloudy, the moon peeking from behind them. We’re in the city, so I can’t see too many stars.

I walk over to the door, look through the glass window. I don’t see the orderlies making their rounds yet, so I should be safe for a while. I try the door handle just in case maybe they forgot to lock me in. They didn’t.

I walk around the perimeter of my room for a while, sit on the floor with my back to the wall a bit, do some pushups and stretching exercises, sit on the dresser and swing my feet. 

I don’t want to go back to sleep because of the nightmares. I’ve never really been the type to have nightmares, but I’m sure getting them now. I wish I could remember what they’re about. I don’t know what I would do if I remembered, but maybe it would make me feel better to know that they were about something really stupid. Maybe I’ll start getting visions like Sam.

Now I’ve made myself upset because I thought of Sam again. I wonder what he’s doing. I wonder if he’s thinking about me. I actually hope he’s staying with Bobby for the time being. I hope he’s not alone. Sam can take care of himself. That’s not a question in my mind, but he does better when he’s around other people, even if it’s just me. It’s probably just because then he has somebody to talk to. 

Just as I’m really starting to make my chest tighten up, my door beeps and the orderly that caught me last night comes in.

“I need you in bed, Dean,” the orderly says, already looking pissed.

If I was in the mood to get a shot, I would have quite a comeback for what he just said, but I let it go. Instead I slink over to the bed and crawl in, sit width-wise and lean my back against the wall.

“If I catch you out of bed again, you’ll get a shot. No questions asked,” he warns me before closing the door.

I rest my head against the wall. I’ve been passively watching everyone for the last two days, seeing if there’s something I can use to get out of here. I’m thinking my best bet would be to swipe a keycard, but I have no idea how far I’ll get in these clothes. This place is run so tightly that I just don’t know if I can get out without outside help.

It would be easy to get a keycard. The orderlies and nurses all keep them in their scrub pockets. They get close enough to touch me all the time, so I’m fairly confident I can get one. There are orderlies everywhere, though. It seems like there are more employees than there are patients here. If I could get a white coat from someone, I might have a chance.

I have no idea what they do to people who try to escape. I’m scared to find out. They’d probably put me in the Pit again. I think it might be safer to wait for help. Sam’s going to come. I know he is. He’s working on a plan. He has to be. He’ll get me out.

I’m tired, but I don’t want to sleep. I don’t want to have another nightmare. I hate waking up to that. I hate feeling scared. Is this how Sammy feels when he has a vision?

I finally fall asleep sitting up.

 

**TUESDAY – WEEK 1**

When I wake up, my neck hurts. It’s half past eight, and my door is open. I must be sleeping hard because of those fucking pills. I don’t usually sleep this hard, especially sitting up.

I grab a new set of scrubs out of my dresser and head for the shower room. Everybody must shower as soon as the lockdown ends because there’s nobody in here right now. I take my time under the spray of the shower, enjoying the feel of the water running down my body. I even take my time shaving and lathering up my body a bunch before letting the soap run down the drain.

After getting dressed, I make sure to throw the razor out. I don’t want to be put on suicide watch. I don’t know what it means, but I’m assuming it’s not fun. Robert’s not at the nurse’s station when I get out to the common room.

“Hey, Dean,” I hear Robert call from behind me.

I turn to see him coming down the hallway toward me. “Hey,” I say cheerfully. I feel kind of good. I think the shower did me good.

“You look good this morning,” he says with a smile, then turns and buzzes himself into the nurse’s station.

“I actually feel pretty good,” I admit. Robert goes to the medication cart, pulls out my cup, sets it up on the counter for me. “Well, I was feeling good,” I grumble as I see the cup of pills.

Robert smiles at me. “It shouldn’t be as bad today. The stomach pill is in there this time,” he tells me.

I pick up the cup and down the pills with a grimace, put the cup back up on the counter. Robert takes it and throws it out.

“Don’t forget your appointment with Jim at ten,” he tells me.

“Do you memorize everyone’s schedules?” I ask with a grin.

Robert chuckles. “No, I just thought that, with everything going on since you got here, you might forget,” he tells me.

“I knew it! You do love me best!” I say with a big smile.

Robert laughs at that. “Go read your book, smartass,” he says as he pulls some files from the countertop.

“Yes, sir,” I say, then turn and head to the couch.

As time goes on, I can feel the pills hit. I start getting groggy, the buzzing comes back, and my stomach starts to hurt, although not as bad as it has been.

At five minutes to ten, I put the book down and walk up to the nurse’s station. “Where’s Jim’s room?”

“It’s the next door down from Dr. Richards’ office,” Robert tells me as he points toward said office. “Just knock on the door. He should be in there.”

“Thanks,” I say, then head off down the hallway. I feel like I’m not walking straight, and my legs feel shaky.

Jim opens the door for me after I knock, and I walk in. The office is set up almost the exact same way as Dr. Richard’s except for personal touches. To my right is an archway into a second room. There are couches in there with a coffee table on a rug, more bookshelves with tons of books filling them.

“It’s nice to see you here,” Jim offers as I stand there feeling nervous and wondering where to go next. “Would you like to have a seat on one of the couches in here?” Jim asks as he points toward the second room.

“Okay,” I say as I head in there, take a seat on the couch to my right.

I’m starting to feel pretty lousy. I am happy that my stomach seems to be tolerable. My hands are shaking. I don’t think it’s all from the medication, though.

Jim sits down on the couch facing the one I’m on. I didn’t notice before, but he’s got my file in his right hand, and he sets it down on the coffee table. I wish I could look through it, see what these guys are saying about me.

“I tend to keep these sessions pretty relaxed and informal,” he tells me with a smile as he leans back, gets comfortable on the couch. “Do you have anything you’d like to talk about to start with?”

I shake my head no and look down at my hands. He’s being really nice. Everybody here is being nice to me. I feel horrible being a jerk to them and not cooperating, but I don’t want to be here or do what they tell me to do. “Am I required to participate here?” I ask him with a wince as I look up at him.

He shakes his head. “No, but you do have to stay here for the whole thirty minutes,” he says kindly.

“Oh,” I say, disappointed. What the fuck are we going to do for a half hour twice a week if I don’t want to talk? Am I supposed to just stare at this guy?

“Do you feel like talking?” he asks me. I shake my head again. He leans forward and rummages under the coffee table. “How about a game of checkers?” he asks as he pulls out a box.

Even though I hate games, I relax a little when I find out that we’ll have something to do besides stare at each other. “Okay,” I say as I scoot forward on the couch.

We play for a few minutes before he says anything. “You know, nobody here is going to force you to talk,” he says after a little while of silence.

“Okay,” I say again, not taking my eyes off the board. I’m winning, but I think he may be letting me win.

“And if you do want to tell any of us anything, you can stop any time you want to, just like you did yesterday in group. You tell us only what you feel like telling us. It’s all up to you,” Jim reassures me.

I snort. “It’s not all up to me,” I say maybe a little bitingly.

“I’m afraid the same can’t be said for your physical well being. The staff does have to take responsibility for that,” he says, sounding sad.

“I think they enjoy torturing me,” I mumble as Jim kings me.

“The staff has mentioned that you’re having trouble with falling asleep during the day, and then staying asleep at night,” Jim mentions.

“It’s those fucking pills that make me fall asleep during the day, and at night the...,” I stop myself. I didn’t want to tell this guy I’m having nightmares.

“What’s happening at night?” he asks softly as I king him.

I don’t say anything. I don’t want him to know about the nightmares. He’s not only going to think I’m a big baby for having them, but he’s going to want to know what they’re about, how to help me.

“Are you having trouble sleeping through the night?” he asks gently.

I keep quiet while we finish the game. He definitely let me win. He sets up the board again, and we just begin another game.

“Did you have trouble sleeping before you came here?” he asks me, still trying to get me to talk.

I shake my head. “No,” I say, wishing he’s just give it up.

He’s quiet for a few minutes while we play. “I’m not going to think any less of you if you tell me why you’re having trouble sleeping,” the doctor says as he makes a move on the board.

He’s not going to give up. “I’m having nightmares,” I mumble as I make a move.

“Do you remember what they’re about?” he asks me.

“No. I just wake up sweating with my heart pounding and feeling like I need to get up and walk around,” I finally admit.

“People on psychiatric drugs tend to complain of vivid dreams,” Jim informs me.

“Oh,” I groan, seething inside at this new revelation. Yet another side effect of these fucking pills. “I don’t suppose I could talk you into taking me off any of the meds,” I pretty much growl.

“Dr. Richards does consult with me, but it’s up to him in the end,” Jim says.

“He has me on five different medications not including a stomach pill he just added,” I complain.

“Is the stomach pill working?” he asks me.

“I think it has so far, but I only started it this morning,” I reply.

“Have you been anorexic or bulimic in the past?” Jim asks, making it sound conversational in a way I think only a professional could.

“No. It’s those fucking pills,” I growl.

“So you think you’ll be able to eat lunch today?” he asks as he makes a move on the board.

“I’m certainly going to try so Robert doesn’t try to shove a tube up my nose or anything up my ass,” I grumble.

Jim lets out a sigh. “It can be difficult to acclimate yourself here. But the quicker you learn to follow the rules, the easier it is on you,” he tells me.

“But that’s just the thing. It’s the fucking pills! I mean, yeah, I don’t want to be here, but I wouldn’t normally refuse to eat or make myself throw up after eating. I’m more the type to be sarcastic and pick fights. I haven’t purposely fought with anyone since getting in here. That’s got to be some kind of record,” I tell him as I lean back on the couch and cover my face with my hands.

“So yesterday when you said that you had hit your brother--”

”It was only once,” I interrupt him. “I don’t hit Sammy,” I insist emphatically as I put my hands down in my lap, look him in the eye.

“He must have really upset you,” Jim comments.

I know he’s fishing for the reason I hit Sam. It’s still a sore subject for me. It’s one that Sam hasn’t brought up since. I look down at my hands, remember the look on Sam’s face when I hit him.

It seems he finally realizes I’m not going to talk about it after I’m quiet for a couple of minutes. “What about your relationship with your father? Did you two get in a lot of fights growing up?”

I think I know what he’s going for, and I don’t like it. “My father wasn’t abusive,” I say as I shake my head. “He was strict with us, but never abusive,” I tell him.

“By strict you mean--”

“My dad was a military man,” I interrupt. “He didn’t put up with shit, especially from his sons,” I say with a bit of a smile.

“How did he--”

“Has it been thirty minutes yet?” I interrupt him again. Again, I know where this is going, and I don’t like it.

He smiles, giving me a look like he knows exactly what I’m doing. “It’s actually been forty-five minutes,” he says.

I instantly get ticked. That sneaky bastard kept me talking, knowing full well I didn’t want to. I take a cleansing breath. “Can I go now?” I ask, instead of punching the guy, which I have a feeling wouldn’t go over too well.

“Sure,” he says cheerfully, as if he didn’t just get away with something. We both stand up and head for the door, me in front. “I’ll see you at three for group,” he says as I open the door and walk out.

“Whatever, asshole,” I mumble as I stalk away. I really doubt he heard me, but it made me feel better nonetheless.

I throw myself down into an overstuffed chair in the common room, watch TV absentmindedly. If I wasn’t so tired, I’d probably be pacing the room. Have I mentioned I hate these pills? Have I mentioned I don’t like doctors?

I doze on and off, but manage to get myself up for lunch. I head to the cafeteria along with the others, grab my tray, and sit down at an empty table. Just as I start in on my overcooked carrots, Joey sits down across from me, drops his tray onto the table.

“Mind if I sit here?” he asks me, looking like he’s ready for a challenge.

“Nope,” I say, then stab at another carrot.

Joey fills his mouth with about twenty pieces of carrot, then looks up at me with piercing blue eyes. “So what are you in for?” he asks.

Great. Just what I wanted to talk about. I shrug my shoulders. “The psychiatrist that evaluated me found me unfit for trial,” I tell him.

“What were on trial for?” he asks me.

“I was a bad boy, and I got caught,” I reply shortly, hoping that will shut him up.

“Ah, so you’re going to be Mr. Secretive, then,” he says with a grin.

“Something like that,” I mumble as I munch on some fruit.

“I killed my mom,” Joey says, looking like he’s hoping it’ll shock me, scare me.

“I bet your dad was proud,” I say, sounding disinterested.

“Nah, my dad’s been dead for a long time. He died when I was three. I don’t remember him at all,” Joey tells me.

“So what landed you in here instead of prison?” I ask. Okay, maybe I’m a little interested.

“Same as you. Failed the psych test. That and I went after my lawyer with a letter opener before the trial,” he says nonchalantly, obviously trying to surprise me yet again.

“Why would you go after your own lawyer?” I ask, puzzled expression on my face.

Joey chuckles. “The prick wouldn’t stop tapping his pen on the table.”

I snort. “How annoying,” I say with a smile.

“Tell me about it!” he says with a grin. “So has anybody come to visit you since you’ve been here?”

I shake my head. “Only family I have is my brother,” I tell him.

“He hasn’t come to see you?”

“Nope,” I say, knowing Joey wants more info.

“It was just me and my mom, so there’s no family around to visit me,” Joey says, seeming perfectly fine with what he just said.

“How long have you been here?” I ask him as I poke at my food. The stomach pill is making it so I don’t throw up, but it’s certainly not taking the pain and queasiness completely away.

“A little over a year,” he replies. 

“How long does it take to get used to these medications they put you on?” I ask with a growl.

Joey laughs. “It’s Hell every time they decide to change those things around on you,” Joey informs me.

“They do it a lot?” I ask with a wince.

He nods. “Especially when you first come here. They try you on all sorts of stuff to try and get you regulated as quickly as possible.”

“Do they mess with your stomach, too?” I ask him.

“Some of them do. It all depends on what they give you, how much they give you. It’s all up to them,” he says with a shrug.

“I kind of noticed that you don’t get that many choices around here,” I mumble.

Joey chuckles. “They tell me that people do better the more scheduled they are, and that’s why they’re so strict around here. I think it’s just because they like messing with our heads,” he whispers the last part to me, grinning.

“So what do you do all day?” I ask, feeling anxious about it myself.

“I read a lot. I listen to music. I watch TV. I draw. Nothing exciting,” he tells me. “What did you do before you came in here?” he asks me, changing the subject quickly. I guess it’s boring talking about what you don’t do all day.

“I traveled a lot,” I reply.

“Yeah? Like around the US, or were you an international man of mystery?” he asks with a grin.

I chuckle. “Just the US,” I tell him, then drain the last of my water. “Sorry to eat and run, here, but I’ve got to take a leak,” I say as I get up and grab my tray.

Just as I turn to my right, my tray collides with another tray, my remaining food and the tray full of food that I ran into ends up going straight onto the patient I walked into. The guy falls backward flat on his ass, trays in his lap.

“Shit!” I say as I bend over and take the trays from his lap. I put them up on the table, reach a hand out to the guy on the floor.

“You dipshit! What is wrong with you?” the guy nearly screams at me.

“I’m sorry, man. I didn’t see you,” I say, still holding my hand out to him.

The guy stands up on his own, glares at me with dark brown eyes. He’s about my height and build with shaggy brown hair. “I suppose you think that was funny,” he growls as he shoves me hard enough that I barely am able to keep upright.

Well, now he’s just being ridiculous. I didn’t mean to do it. “Look, I’m sorry. There’s no need to--”

“You’re sorry?” he interrupts as he stalks toward me.

I realize then that he’s not going to give this up easily. So, instead of backing up, I stand my ground when he comes up to me.

He starts poking me in the chest. “Sorry doesn’t mean shit, you little motherfucker,” he yells in my face.

I bat his hand away, which just seems to infuriate him. “You don’t have to--,” I start, but am interrupted this time by him backhanding me. Now I’m pissed. I pull back and then punch him hard with a right hook to his jaw.

The guy steps back a couple of paces, but then regains his composure enough to come at me again. This time dives at my midsection, sending the two of us sprawling down onto the linoleum floor. He’s instantly straddling my hips and trying to punch my face. I manage to get my arms up around my face. When he grabs at my arms to get them away from my face, I take the opportunity to punch him in the stomach. It stuns him enough that I’m able to get the two of us turned over, me straddling his hips this time.

I’m still in control enough to realize that I don’t want to hurt this guy. I just want to get him to leave me alone. So I give him two good punches in the face, then wait to see his reaction.

Just then I’m pulled off the guy. Someone has me by my upper arms. Then I’m suddenly on my stomach. “Just relax, Dean,” I hear Marcus say as he pulls my arms behind my back, puts his right knee in the small of my back.

I instantly relax my body so that Marcus knows I won’t fight him. “I’m calm,” I tell him.

“Just lie there until I get you up, okay?” Marcus asks.

There’s no way I’m getting out of the hold he’s got me in without one or both of us getting hurt. “Yes, sir,” I reply, hoping they don’t give me a shot.

Then I hear the guy I was fighting with. He’s screaming at the top of his lungs, and it sounds like there’s a fight going on in trying to get him down. He’s calling them every name I’ve ever heard of and even some in another language. It takes a few minutes, but eventually I hear him screaming down the hallway. Then the sound fades until I can’t hear him anymore.

Marcus gets off my back, lets go of my arms, and then helps me up. “Are you going to fight me?” he asks me when I finally face him.

“No, sir,” I say even though I don’t know what he’s going to do to me.

“Bring him straight to my office,” I hear Dr. Richards say. I look over Marcus’ shoulder to see the doctor turn around and take off in the direction of his office.

“Come with me, Dean,” Marcus says as he gets a hold of my upper arm, leads me out of the cafeteria.

I don’t know what they’re going to do to me. They’ve never said what happens when you get into a fight. Marcus escorts me into the doctor’s office, sits me down in the chair in front of the doctor’s desk.

“Don’t move until I tell you to,” Marcus says from behind me.

“Yes, sir,” I say with a nod, then look up at the doctor.

Dr. Richards pulls my file out from under a few other files on his desktop, looks through a few of the pages. “I’m afraid we don’t take fighting too lightly around here, Dean,” he says as he put the file down onto his desk.

“I didn’t start the fight, sir,” I tell him as respectfully as possible.

“Unfortunately it doesn’t matter. When patients are caught fighting, we are required to do two things. One is to separate them, get them in isolation until they’ve cooled off. The second is to reevaluate their medications,” he tells me.

I let out a groan. “I’m already on five medications,” I complain.

“Yes, well, now you’re on six,” he tells me. My scowl and huff don’t seem to faze him. “Marcus will escort you out to the nurse’s station where Robert will give you your new medication. You will take it, then go with Marcus to your room, where you will remain until group therapy at three.”

“What is the new medication?” I ask him.

“It’s something to calm you down,” he says.

I let out an aggravated chuckle. “I’m already so calm I can barely stay awake!” I tell him.

“Marcus,” Dr. Richards says.

I’m assuming Dr. Richards is telling Marcus to get me out of his office, because Marcus takes my upper arm again and practically drags me out of the office and into the hallway.

We get to the nurse’s station in time for Robert to set my cup on the counter. “I’ll come to your room in just a minute to fix up your lip,” Robert says, then starts rummaging through the drawers of a cart behind the counter.

I down the pill. “Okay,” I say as I set the cup back up on the counter. I look down at my shirt to see a few dribbles of blood on it that must be from my lip.

Marcus then takes me back to my room. “Sit on the bed, please,” Marcus says as we walk into my room. I do as I’m told. Marcus takes my slippers from me, sets them on the floor at the end of the bed.

“I really didn’t start that fight,” I tell Marcus.

“I believe you, Dean. We’ve had a lot of trouble with Danny getting into fights,” he informs me.

“Then why the medication change?” I ask with a frown.

Marcus shrugs. “It’s how we’re supposed to handle fights amongst the patients. It’s nothing personal,” Marcus assures me.

Robert comes in with gloves on and a plastic box holding first aid supplies in his left hand. He tilts my head back with a hand under my chin. “I don’t think we need to take you to the infirmary. It’s already closed up,” he tells me as he sets the box on the bed.

“Where did they take Danny?” I ask as Robert takes a wipe out of a package.

“It’s his second fight this week, so he was sent to the IV room,” he says as he gently wipes my lip and chin.

Remind me not to get into another fight, then. “What’s this pill going to do to me?”

“It’ll calm you down,” Robert says as he pulls a bottle of water out of his pocket, sets it on my bedside table.

“Will it hurt my stomach?” I ask him with a wince.

“No, this one shouldn’t do anything other than calm you down,” he tells me. “Now you’re on lockdown until three o’clock. Here’s some water if you need it, and then I’ll come in to get you for group when it’s time.”

“Wait! I have to take a leak,” I say as Robert starts to leave.

“Marcus, can you take him to the shower room?” Robert asks.

“You got it,” Marcus says as he steps over to my slippers.

It’s an uneventful, but nonetheless invasive, trip to piss. Marcus stands right with me as if I am going to bolt at any second. Then it’s a rather boring wait for Robert to come get me. I suppose I would have just been sitting around anyway, but to be ordered to stay in your room on the bed kind of seems restrictive when normally you have a bit more freedom than that.

I watch as the patients stroll in and find a seat in the meeting room. I’m sitting in the same seat I was yesterday, facing the doorway. Jim is over at the countertop, finishing up a drink from a Styrofoam cup. He tosses the cup into the garbage can next to the water cooler, then takes the empty seat. This time he’s sitting directly to my right.

“Good afternoon, everybody,” he says with a smile on his face.

A few of the patients say something back to him. Joey is sitting across from me again. I smile at him and he gives me a grin.

“Today I’m going to open it up to you guys. One of you can start by saying whatever you’d like to get the ball rolling, and then we’ll just play it by ear,” Jim tells everyone.

“I called my wife today, and she and I talked on the phone for about twenty minutes,” a man in his late forties to my left says.

I’m feeling dizzier. I hope it’s not because of that new medication. I’m already dizzy enough, thank you very much.

“What did the two of you talk about, Jerry?” Jim asks the man.

“We mostly talked about the kids. She told me she misses me,” Jerry says with a sad smile.

“How are they all doing?” Jim asks.

“They’re doing fine. She said everybody keeps asking about me, about how I’m doing in here,” Jerry replies.

At least my stomach isn’t any more upset than it was before I took the pill. I don’t want to throw up or get the NG tube again.

“Is she honest with the kids about where you are?” Jim asks.

I look toward the doorway to see an orderly standing just to the right of it. Then my father walks up to the doorway and leans against it.

I scramble to stand up so fast that I fall backwards onto the chair, hit it with my right hip, then fall hard to the floor to my left. Dad just smiles at me. I scramble back until I’m against the wall.

“Okay, everybody follow Marcus out into the common room,” I hear Jim say calmly. Then he’s down on the floor on his knees with me.

I’m already panting. Dad’s just standing there smiling at me. He’s dead. I know he’s dead. Sam and I burned the body ourselves.

“Talk to me, Dean. Tell me what’s wrong,” Jim says.

“Dad,” I groan. “Dad’s standing over there,” I tell Jim as I point to the doorway. “But he’s dead. I know he’s dead. Why do I see him, if he’s dead?”

Then Jim’s left hand is on my right upper arm. He squeezes gently. “Close your eyes, and try to focus on your breathing,” Jim says to me.

I can’t take my eyes off of Dad. “But he’s standing right there!” I yell as if Jim didn’t hear me the first time I said it.

“Dean, it’s just a hallucination. Close your eyes, and work on breathing deeply and slowly,” Jim says as he rubs my arm.

I think he’s touching me because he’s trying to keep me grounded, keep me aware of him. It’s helping a little bit.

“Close your eyes,” Jim says yet again.

I make a keening noise as Dad steps to the side to allow Robert entry into the room. Robert drops to his knees at my left side.

“Sam’s not coming to get you out, son,” Dad says, sounding sad as he starts to walk toward us.

“No!” I yell as I try to get away. Robert and Jim each take an arm in hand and hold me in place. I’m panting so hard that I’m thinking I might hyperventilate. 

Dad crouches down in front of me. He looks concerned. He looks real. “You’re going to have to do this one all on your own, Dean. Sammy can’t come,” Dad tells me.

“He’s having a reaction to the new drug,” Robert tells Jim.

Suddenly there’s a hypodermic in front of my face. I drag my eyes from Dad to see Robert pull the cap off with his teeth. I whimper as I see him aim for my upper arm just where the shirt ends. I yelp as Robert sticks me with the needle, depresses the plunger.

“This is going to help with the hallucinations, Dean,” Robert says as he takes the needle out. He holds the hypodermic up in front of us, pushes the plunger in further, and the needle falls into the syringe. He then puts the hypodermic back into his pocket.

“He’s still there. Dad’s still there,” I tell Robert desperately.

“Give it time to work. Close your eyes,” Robert tells me.

“Do you know why Sammy isn’t coming, baby?” Dad asks.

“The sedative should work, but you’ve just got to give it some time,” Robert says as he runs the backs of his fingers down my left cheek. It isn’t until then that I notice my cheeks are wet. He then uses his thumb to wipe the tears from my right cheek. “Close your eyes, Dean,” Robert says again.

“Sammy’s dead, Dean,” Dad says with a grin.

“No! You’re lying!” I scream even though I know it’s just a hallucination. I try to push away from the two men, but they just hold me tighter, keep me down on the floor against the wall.

“I killed him, Dean-O,” my father says, looking satisfied.

I finally squeeze my eyes shut. I lean my head against the wall behind me. “No, you didn’t! You’re just lying!” I feel so tired. Why won’t he leave me alone?

“I’ve learned a lot down here in Hell,” Dad continues, and I look up at him again. Then he holds his hand out to me. A small flame springs up from his palm. “It took hours for Sammy to die, Dean,” he tells me as he lowers his hand to just above my right foot. He then blows on the flame. It’s as if he just blew alcohol at the fire as it explodes from his hand, engulfing my foot for just a fraction of a second.

“Ow!” I scream as I start to kick my feet. “No, please don’t!” I plead with him.

Then I feel Robert’s breath on my left ear, his forehead against the left side of my head. “It’s not real, Dean. Close your eyes. Listen to my voice and the sound of your own breathing,” Robert says softly. “Try to control your breathing.”

“Don’t listen to him. I’m as real as everything else you’ve seen for yourself since you were four years old,” Dad tells me. “And I’m real enough to hurt you,” he says with a grin as he touches his finger to the floor in front of my feet. He draws an invisible circle with his finger. Then he snaps his fingers, and a small flame appears within the circle he just drew.

“Dad, please don’t hurt me,” I beg as I watch the little flame.

“Your dad’s not here, Dean,” Jim says from my right side. “He can’t hurt you.”

The little flame goes out. Then Dad draws a line starting from my right foot to his left side. He makes a little motion with his left hand over the invisible line. “Sam screamed for you, little boy,” Dad tells me. Another flame appears on the line, starts inching its way to me.

“No! Make it stop! Make it stop!” I scream as I try to get away from the flame. Jim and Robert just hold me down.

I hear Robert talking again, but I’m so scared that I can’t hear what he’s saying. The flame stops in between my spread legs, hovers there.

I turn to Robert. “You’ve got to let me go! He’s going to burn me! Please let me go! I have to get away from him! Please let me go!” I beg him.

Robert covers my eyes with his left hand, rests his forehead against the left side of my head again. “Are you listening to me?” he asks.

“Y-yeah,” I reply shakily.

“This time you’re going to keep your eyes closed. You’re going to keep listening to me, and you’re going to relax for me,” Robert says with that authoritative voice he’s used on me before.

“Okay,” I say, hoping Robert can help me.

He keeps his hand over my eyes, probably not trusting me to keep them closed. “Your dad isn’t really here,” he tells me firmly.

“Yes, I am, buddy boy. I’m here, I’m real, and I’m going to kill you even slower than I killed your baby brother,” Dad says with a chuckle.

“He says he killed Sam!” I yell at Robert.

Robert doesn’t move. “You’re dad’s not really here. He can’t hurt you. You’re having a hallucination. It’ll seem completely real to you, but it’s not. He’s not really burning you. This is a hallucination caused by a reaction to the new drug they gave you. The shot I gave you not only counteracts the hallucinations, but it also has a sedative effect, so you’re going to start feeling a little tired when it kicks in. Do you feel tired yet?”

“Yeah. A little,” I tell him, feeling myself shake.

“Just relax. Give the drug a little time to work in your system. He can’t hurt you. He’s not going to burn you. I’ve got you, and you’re safe,” Robert tells me.

“But he said he killed Sam,” I whisper.

“He didn’t kill Sam,” Robert says with confidence. 

“But I haven’t seen Sam since I’ve been in here. What if he killed him?” I whimper. I feel like I could sleep for a week. I’m so worn out. I want this to be over so they can put me in my room and let me pass out.

“He didn’t kill Sam,” Robert says again. “Is he still talking to you?”

I listen for a moment. “No,” I say, unsure of what’ll happen.

“I’m going to take my hand away. If you open your eyes and see him, just close them again for me, okay?” Robert asks.

“Okay,” I agree. When Robert takes his hand away, I open my eyes and look around the room. “I don’t see him,” I say.

“He’s gone?” Jim asks.

“I think so,” I say, still wary.

Robert starts wiping my face clean again. “You did good, Dean,” he says with a smile.

“Do you feel okay to walk yet?” Jim asks me.

“I gave him a pretty big dose,” Robert says to Jim. “We should probably help him all the way to his room.”

“Okay, then let’s get him up,” Jim says.

The two men then help me to my feet. They practically drag me back to my room. I’m so tired that my eyes are already falling closed as I’m walking. They carefully get me into bed. Jim takes my slippers and Robert pulls the covers over me. Did he know I was cold?

“I don’t want to be alone,” I mumble, my eyes already closed.

“You’re not alone. Just go to sleep. I’ll keep checking in on you. The door will be open so that you can come and get me if you need anything,” Robert reassures me.

“’k,” I slur, then promptly fall asleep.

 

**WEDNESDAY – WEEK 1**

I’m awakened by someone rubbing my arm briskly. “Hey, Dean,” Robert says.

I pull the covers over my head. “Too early,” I say into the pillow.

“You’ve slept sixteen hours already. I think it’s about time you got up, don’t you think?” he asks me, smile evident in his tone of voice.

“Sixteen hours?” I ask as I pull the covers back down, blink up at the light.

“It’s just past eight o’clock. Come have some breakfast,” he says as he points his thumb over his shoulder toward the door.

“I actually don’t feel all that bad,” I comment as I sit up, swing my legs over the side of the bed. 

“Good,” Robert says with a smile, then leaves the room.

I use the toilet quickly before I head to the cafeteria. Everybody must rush in to eat breakfast at eight o’clock, because the place is full. There are a few empty seats, but other patients are sitting at the tables. I see that Joey is sitting at a table by himself, so I make my way over to him.

“Do you mind if I sit with you?” I ask him.

“Be my guest,” Joey says with a big smile. He looks happy to see me. I sit down and start in on my eggs. “Do you feel better this morning?” Joey asks me with a wince.

I nod. “Much better. Although I haven’t taken my pills yet,” I say as I roll my eyes.

Joey chuckles. “That’s what you get for defending yourself,” he says with a shrug. He breaks a piece of toast off and pops it into his mouth. “You do know they’re going to replace the pill with something else, right?” he asks.

“I thought they might pull that on me,” I grumble as I pick up my sausage and take a bite. “Is there any way to talk Richards out of more drugs?” I ask him.

Joey shakes his head. “Not that I’ve found, but you may have more luck,” he tells me. “Hell, I even offered to suck the guy off,” Joey says.

I nearly choke on the sausage as I laugh. “Maybe you’re not his type,” I say, still chuckling.

Joey laughs at that. “I’m probably too old to be his type,” he says with an evil grin.

I laugh again. “He does seem like a bit of a creep, doesn’t he?” I ask quietly.

He nods. “Definitely,” he says. “My mom brought home plenty of creeps, so I would know firsthand.”

My eyes widen. “Oh, sorry,” I say with a wince.

“Why are you sorry? It’s not your fault that some of Mom’s boyfriends thought I was cute,” Joey says.

“I know, but I’m sorry--”

“It’s not a big deal,” Joey interrupts me. “Besides, she got hers,” he says with a grin.

That explains a lot. And here I thought this kid just felt like killing his mom one day for no reason. 

“I wish I would’ve killed the bastard she was dating at the time, too,” Joey says, looking disappointed. He pokes at his eggs. “She knew,” he says with a bit of a chuckle. “The bitch knew what those fuckers were doing to me, and she just ignored it,” Joey tells me.

What the fuck do I say to that one? I don’t know what to do! Do I ask him about it? Do I change the subject? Do I offer him my sympathy? Do I tell him how it sounds like his life has sucked up to this point, and boy am I glad I’m not him?

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have started talking about that,” Joey tells me. “All it does is get me upset, and there’s nothing I can do about it now, so let’s change the subject to something innocuous,” Joey says with a smile. “How’s your breakfast?”

I chuckle at that, relieved that he changed the subject. Not that I wouldn’t listen to him if he wanted to talk, but I just wouldn’t know what to say. “You know I’m actually surprised at how good the food is here. I expected it to be horrible because it’s hospital food, but it’s not bad,” I tell him.

“Yeah, I guess it is. I never think much about it, but you’re right. I’ve heard people complain about hospital food before, but this isn’t so bad,” he says.

“Do you usually eat every meal?” I ask him.

He shakes his head. “No, I usually skip breakfast, but I didn’t eat much yesterday because of a stomach ache, so I was hungry this morning,” Joey explains.

“Why did you have a stomach ache?” I ask as I spear some fruit with my fork.

“I had an appointment with Jim just before dinner, and he got me talking about stuff I really didn’t feel like talking about,” Joey says as he looks down at his tray sullenly.

“I’ve noticed he’s able to make you talk when you don’t feel like it,” I grumble.

Joey looks up at me, surprise on his features. “He does the same thing to you?”

“Yeah. He got me talking a little bit when all I wanted to do was sit there and sulk,” I say with a frown.

“Good, then it’s not just me,” Joey says, looking relieved.

I shake my head. “It takes a special kind of person to be able to handle people like that, and Jim is just one of those guys that can pull stuff out of you,” I tell him.

“I guess that’s why he became a doctor, huh?”

I nod. Then I see that we’re both done with our breakfasts. “Well, I didn’t get a shower yet, so I think I’ll go take one,” I say as I stand up, grab my tray.

“Okay, I’ll see you later today,” Joey says as I walk away. He stays at the table as I put my tray on the cart and leave the cafeteria.

I go to my room, get some fresh scrubs, and make my way to the shower room. The spray feels wonderful, so I turn it as hot as I can stand it, close my eyes, and just let the water run over me.

When I feel a hand on my ass, I spin around. There’s a man standing in front of me with a smile on his face. I recognize him from group. What was his name? Jerry! He looks bigger close up. Taller than me, and definitely better built.

He reaches up with his left hand and caresses my cheek with the backs of his fingers. My breathing catches as he lets his hand travel down my jaw, my neck, and to my chest. I jump when he pinches my nipple. 

I back up, but run into the wall. He just takes a step forward, starts running the tip of his finger over my chest. “I’m going to fuck you,” he says softly.

I start to slide to the left along the wall, but my left foot gets caught on his right, and I fall down flat on my ass on the tile floor. That hurt. Jerry starts coming for me again, so I crawl backwards to get away. It isn’t until I’m in the corner that I realize I’ve cornered myself.

Jerry crouches down in front of me, his cock red and full. “I want you to listen carefully,” he says with a grin on his face. “If you fight me, you’re going to the Pit,” he tells me.

Just hit him. Just fucking hit him. “Not if I tell them--”

“You’ve already been in a fight once this week,” he says, interrupting me. “They won’t even ask questions. They’ll just drag you down there,” he threatens.

I shiver. He’s right. “But--”

“You’ve already been there once, so you know what it’s like,” he interrupts me again. “And who do you think they’re going to believe? You’re going up against a guy who got sent to jail for mail fraud. What are you in for?” he sneers as he reaches out and runs his thumb along my bottom lip.

I squeeze my eyes shut, but only for a moment. This can’t be happening. This is so ridiculous. Can’t everybody leave me alone?

“If you hurt me bad enough, they may even send you to the maximum security floor,” he tells me.

He lets his fingers run down my chest, my stomach, then he gently grabs my dick, starts pulling it casually. I try to push myself further into the corner. Where the Hell has my confidence gone? I swear I’m going to shove these pills down Dr. Richards’ throat next time I see him. I’m scared. I’m actually scared of this guy.

“It’s up to you, though. Either I fuck you over there in the stalls or you go to the Pit for a couple of days,” he says with a shrug.

“I don’t--”

“No fucking in the showers, guys,” I hear an orderly say from the doorway. “Jerry, you know better. Come on. Up and out. Both of you.”

“Yes, sir,” Jerry says to the orderly, still looking at me. He winks at me, then stands and heads for the cubbyholes.

I shakily stand up, head for my scrubs, pull them on without bothering to dry off, which makes it a little difficult, especially considering I’m shaking so badly. When I finally get the scrubs on, I manage to get the slippers on and head for the doorway. I get out of the shower room before the orderly leaves.

I head straight for my room. I kick my slippers off, climb up on the bed, sit width-wise, and pull my legs up against my chest, warp my arms around my legs.

This isn’t funny. I can’t remember ever being so scared. My choice is to get fucked or get drugged? I think if he were to ask me again, I’d go for getting drugged even though it terrifies me.

Every time I think the worst has happened, something else happens that totally blows me away. I definitely want out. Sam is coming, right? He has to. I don’t know how much longer I can take this. He’s got to be working with Bobby on a plan right now.

I’m so tired. I’m so scared. I’m so sick of all this shit. This place is supposed to make people feel better, not worse.

“Hey,” a voice calls from the doorway.

I jump so badly I almost lose my grip on my wrist as I turn with wide eyes to see who’s at the door.

“You didn’t take your pills yet today,” Robert says.

I glance at the clock. It’s quarter after nine. I shake my head. “I’m n-not taking them,” I say voice trembling. There’s no way I want to take drugs that make me feel as helpless as I feel right now.

Robert steps into the room, comes to stand in front of me. “Are you okay?” he asks, concern evident in his tone of voice.

I’m shaking harder, and now I can feel tears welling up in my eyes. I can’t stand feeling like this anymore. They can’t give me these drugs. “Yeah,” I reply, sounding anything but okay.

“Don’t lie to me, Dean,” Robert says in a tone that Dad used to use with me when he said those exact words to me. Not that I actually lied to Dad often, but the few times I did, that’s what it sounded like.

“I’m fine,” I whisper, then feel my bottom lip tremble.

“Tell me what happened,” Robert says, same tone.

I feel a warm tear make its way down my right cheek. I shake my head no. “I’m fine,” I say again, my voice cracking on the second word.

Robert climbs onto the bed, sits next to me, puts his right arm around my shoulders, pulls me into him a little bit. “Talk to me,” he says, not giving up.

I turn my head into him, rest against his upper chest. It feels so good to be held that a few more tears make their way down my cheeks. I can’t stop them, and I can’t stop the small sob that escapes my lips, either.

Robert brings his left hand up, starts running his fingers through my hair. “Your hair’s still wet. Were you taking a shower?” he asks me.

I don’t trust my voice, and I don’t trust myself not to start sobbing all over Robert’s shirt, so I just nod my head.

“Catch your breath for a minute,” Robert says, sounding so calm and soothing that I want to fall asleep in his arms. “Did somebody hurt you?” he asks me.

Well, Jerry didn’t actually hurt me. Scared the shit out of me, but didn’t hurt me. “No,” I say finally.

“You’ve got to tell me what happened. Help me out here, Dean,” Robert asks of me.

I take a shaky cleansing breath. “He cornered me,” I manage to get out. “He told me he was going to fuck me in the stalls. He said, if I fought, I would get put in the Pit. Then he started touching me, grabbing my dick. He said that they wouldn’t believe me if I told on him,” I say, trying to get everything out at once.

“Who did that to you?” he asks.

I shake my head no. I don’t want to tell him. What if Robert doesn’t believe me? What if he tells Jerry what I said? What if Jerry gets in trouble? He’s got a wife and kids! I can’t get him trouble!

“You’ve got to tell me who, Dean,” Robert says as he gives my shoulder a little shake.

“Can’t,” I say with a wince even though he can’t see it from where he’s sitting.

“Why not?”

“He’s got a family, kids. I can’t get him in trouble,” I whimper.

“Think about this for a minute, Dean. Shouldn’t you be more willing to tell me if this guy forced himself on you when you know he’s got kids?” Robert asks me.

Oh, fuck! I hadn’t thought of that. What if he’s doing things to his two kids? I let out a groan.

“Come on, Dean. Tell me his name so we can help him and his kids,” Robert says as he rests his chin on the top of my head.

“Jerry,” I finally say with a shiver.

“Okay, and he didn’t hurt you? He didn’t fuck you? Do I need to take you to the infirmary?” Robert asks me.

I shake my head no again. “An orderly stopped him from doing anything else,” I tell Robert.

“An orderly saw this happen?” Robert asks, sounding a little ticked and a bit surprised.

“The orderly thought it was consensual. He told us that there was no fucking allowed in the showers. He didn’t really see anything,” I reassure Robert.

“Was anybody else in the shower room with the two of you?” he asks me.

I shake my head no. “Do you believe me?” I ask him.

“Yeah, I believe you,” Robert says as he gives my shoulder a squeeze.

We sit there for a few minutes, and I enjoy feeling secure for a short bit of time. I don’t know why these people are being so nice to me. With not only what got me put in here in the first place, but also the attitude and constant bitching I’ve been doing, you would think they’d hate me. I don’t know whose good side I got on to get put here, but I’d like to thank them one day when I’m out of here.

“I need you to do me a favor,” Robert says as he runs the fingers of his left hand through my damp hair.

“Yeah?” I mumble, wishing he would shut up and just sit here with me some more.

“I need you to stay here while I go take care of something,” he says as he starts to rub my back with his right hand.

I snort. “You mean you’re going to--”

“I mean I’m going to take care of something,” Robert interrupts me as he slides to the edge of my bed. He stands up, looks down at me. I must look pathetic because he tilts his head to the side. “Are you going to be okay here by yourself for a few minutes?” he asks me.

I wince. “I’m fine. I’m sorry about--”

“Don’t apologize,” he tells me.

I feel so stupid. I just cried in front of this man. “I don’t usually--”

“Dean,” he says more forcefully, eyebrow raised until I nod. Okay, I guess he means it. “Sit and stay,” Robert says, pointing at me.

“Yes, sir,” I say with a lopsided grin.

I watch Robert leave, and I try to force down the panic in the pit of my stomach that swells as he leaves. I stretch out on my bed, bury my face in my pillow. The sheets have just been changed, and although they don’t smell as good as when Sam does the laundry, they still smell fresh.

I don’t know how long Robert is gone, but of course I fall asleep while he’s away. I wake to his fingers running up and down my left arm.

“I can’t leave you alone for a minute, can I?” he asks with a big smile that makes me feel good inside.

“I don’t suppose you’d believe me if I said I’m actually not big on sleep when I’m not drugged to shit,” I say with a smile of my own.

Robert chuckles. “I do believe you. You seem like the type that’s constantly on the go, athletic, always into things, needing to move,” he tells me.

“You can tell all that about me?” I ask as I sit up in bed.

“Most people, on the medications and dosages that you’re on, are pretty much drooling. You’ve got to be a pretty active person for them not to affect you to that degree,” he explains.

“You know they do that, and you still make me get up all the time?” I ask with a pout as I stand up.

He puts his left hand on the back of my neck and gives me a gentle, playful shake. “How can you keep me on my toes if you’re sitting around drooling like a vegetable?” he asks with a laugh.

I can’t help but chuckle myself. “Jerk,” I grumble with a smile as I get my slippers on. “So what are you forcing me to do now?” I ask as we walk out into the hallway.

“It’s time for your appointment with Dr. Richards,” he says like it’s the most exciting thing ever.

I groan loudly. “Didn’t I just see him?”

“Keep an eye on the list next to your door. Today is Wednesday. Richards’ day,” Robert informs me.

“He hates me. He’s going to take one look at me and put me on another medication, isn’t he?” I moan as we get closer to Dr. Richards’ door.

“Well, at least you’re not late. He hates it when people are late,” Robert says with a smile.

“Oh, joy,” I say, words dripping with sarcasm.

“Oh, don’t forget these,” Robert says as he pulls my pill cup out of his pocket.

“I thought I had gotten away with it today,” I say with a grimace, knowing that a new drug is in the mix again. I down the pills as I don’t like the consequences of fighting that one.

Robert grins at me, takes the empty container from me. “We can’t have that!”

I give Robert a snort, then turn and knock on the door.

“See you,” Robert says as he walks away.

“Yeah,” I mumble as Dr. Richards opens the door.

“Come in, Dean,” the doctor says, looking almost pleased to see me. I think there might be a little bit of a smile, or at least a smirk, on his face. “Have a seat,” he says as he gestures toward the chair in front of his desk.

I sit down feeling nervous. I don’t want to do anything that will make this guy want to give me more medication. I rub my sweaty palms on my pants, look across the desk at the man that holds my fate.

The doctor looks down at my open folder on the desk. He picks up his pen, taps it once on the pages. “So how do you think the medications are working, Dean?” he asks me almost pleasantly.

Okay, how the fuck do I answer that question right? My jaw drops open for a moment as I try to come up with a response that won’t earn me more pills. “I like the one that makes my stomach feel better,” I say with what I hope passes for a smile, but is probably more like a grimace.

“Good,” and that’s definitely a smile. He writes something down on the page. “Are you having any feelings of aggression toward anyone or anything on them?” he asks, peering at me from over the top of his glasses perched low on his nose.

He wants to know if I have any aggression when I’m too doped up to see straight. “No, sir,” I say, hoping that’s what he was looking for. 

“Have you had any more hallucinations?” he asks me after he writes something down.

“No, sir,” I say with a shiver as I remember the last one in vivid detail.

“What about your sleeping habits? Are you sleeping well?” he asks me.

I wince at that. He’s not going to like my answer. “Well, I kind of sleep all the time. I’m constantly tired, and I don’t have any energy,” I complain carefully.

“You’ll get used to that,” he says with a nod, then writes in my file. “What about your libido? How is that on the medication?”

“What?” I ask, a little surprised at the question.

“It’s perfectly normal for medication to affect libido, so I want to know how yours is affected,” he says again.

Well, now that I think about it, I don’t think I’ve thought about sex once since I’ve been here. Now I’m freaked out. This isn’t right. They’ve taken everything from me, and now I can’t even have sex? “I, uh, it... I hadn’t... I haven’t thought about it. At all,” I say, bewildered, a frown on my face. My skin prickles, and I feel myself break out in a light sweat.

“Ah,” Dr. Richards nods, then writes in my file again like it’s nothing. “How are the group therapy sessions going? Are you finding yourself able to discuss your feelings at them?”

I’m still not over the sex question. I. Can’t. Have. Sex. I think I’m breathing a little heavier. I try to focus on what he just said, but I’m just freaked. “They’re okay,” I hedge.

“And your time with Jim?” he asks me.

“It’s okay,” I say, trying not to look as shocked as I feel.

“I know today is Wednesday, not your scheduled day, but you have an appointment with Jim after group therapy today,” the doctor tells me.

That gets me over my shock enough to focus me on the conversation again. “Huh?” I ask stupidly.

“Try to open up with him. Talk to him about things that have happened. Give it a chance,” the doctor says almost kindly.

“Why the appointment today?” I ask, totally confused.

The doctor gives me a sad smile, then looks down at my file, writes a few lines. “It’s policy to send patients to Jim when there is an incident,” he says without looking up from the folder.

I actually flinch at that. “Oh,” I breathe with a wince. Great. Does everyone know about Jerry?

Dr. Richards closes my file, looks up at me with a smile on his face. “That’s all for today, then. You have about five minutes until group,” he says as he stands up, opens the door for me.

I stand on shaky legs, make my way out into the hallway, listen to Dr. Richards shut the door behind me.

“Fuck!” I growl as I lean up against the wall. I close my eyes and let my head fall back to the wall. I hate this whole fucking thing.

I have the sudden urge to shoot something. Preferably something evil and menacing. Something that won’t go down without a fight.

Where are you, Sammy? I don’t know how long I can do this. This whole thing is just insane, and I’m starting to become afraid I won’t make it out in one piece.

I hear footsteps. “Walk me to group?” Jim says softly beside me.

“Okay,” I mumble as I turn to walk down the hall.

Jim doesn’t say anything as we walk. I have no clue why, but it’s fine with me if he doesn’t feel like talking today. I guess I have to give the guy a little credit for seeing that I’m upset and not pushing.

This time there are only two seats open, and of course they’re right next to one another. It’s as if the other patients were hoping Jim and I would sit together.

As I sit down, I count the heads. There’s one less head, but one less chair as well. I cringe a little bit in my chair. Jerry’s missing, and it’s my fault.

I take a look around, but nobody seems to be looking at me except Joey. He gives me a small smile, and I smile back.

Does everybody know what happened? Do they blame me? Is the staff asking the other patients about it to see if Jerry did anything to them? I try to tell myself not to worry about it, but I haven’t really felt like I was fitting in here so far, and this makes it even worse. Not that I want us all to be buddies, but having a few people who think you’re an okay guy isn’t a bad thing, either.

I don’t know why I’m feeling this way. He was the pervert. I just feel none of my usual self-confidence, and it’s scary. I don’t like it at all. I know it has to be the medication, but that doesn’t stop me from being freaked out about it. I wonder if that new one is going to give me hallucinations like that other one did. I wonder who I’ll see this time.

By the time I realize Jim is talking, I’ve already missed part of what he has said. I look down at my hands, attempting inconspicuousness.

“Sonny, would you like to start?” Jim asks.

I let myself relax a bit. I’m not first in line. Hopefully I’ll figure out what they’re talking about before I’m called on.

“I had a bulldog when I was younger. I named it Max. I had it a pretty long time,” Sonny says, nonchalantly giving his answer.

Okay, so the subject is childhood pets. This I can do. I had none. Ever. That’s easy enough to answer if the question gets around to me. Until then I can zone out.

My stomach is hurting worse than it was earlier. I don’t know if it’s because of the new drug or if I’m just nervous about this whole Jerry thing.

My mind turns to Sam. Big surprise. I see him at Bobby’s house, the two of them coming up with all different kinds of plans to get me out of here. I can see Sam using the net to come up with IDs for the two of them, although I don’t know how Bobby could fit in anywhere very easily. Sam could fit in if he wanted to.

Suddenly I realize there is a hand rubbing my back, and Jim is leaning in toward me. “Can you stay awake just a couple more minutes, and then we’ll go back to my office?” he whispers in my ear.

I wince at him. “Sorry,” I whisper back.

“It’s okay,” he says, giving me a smile.

I run my hands over my face while I hear, but don’t listen to one of the other patients telling something about a dog or maybe a cat. It might have been a bird.

“I think that’s all for today, guys. You all did very well, and I’ll see you tomorrow afternoon,” Jim says pleasantly.

Everybody shuffles out of the room, and I’m left with Jim sitting next to me. “Sorry about that,” I mumble, then yawn.

“No problem,” he says kindly. “Do you think you can walk?” he asks as if it’s no big deal.

My head feels fuzzy. That stupid vibrating sensation inside my body is stronger. This is definitely the new pill taking effect. “I’m okay,” I groan as I stretch. I stand up and follow Jim into the hallway.

“You started on the new mediation today, didn’t you?” he asks me about halfway there.

“Yeah, it’s another one to add to the list of medications to make me fall asleep. I think they really just want me in bed and drooling on the pillow, but Robert won’t let me stay in bed,” I say as we turn the corner.

Jim chuckles at that. “I’m sure it feels like that sometimes, but really all they’re trying to do is help you to get better,” he says with confidence.

“No, all they’re trying to do is keep me from killing anybody while I’m here,” I say with a roll of my eyes.

Jim holds his door open for me. I walk in and step right into the second room, sit down on the couch. My file is already on the coffee table between the couches. Jim sits down, picks up my folder. “Would you like to talk about why you’re here?” he asks me.

“No,” I say with a wince.

“You know, you’re actually pretty lucky to be here,” he says to me.

“What do you mean?” I ask with a chuckle.

“Well, you were on your way to another hospital, one that isn’t near as nice as this one, but the orders were changed at the last minute, and you were sent here instead,” he tells me.

Go Sammy! “Why’s that?” I ask, trying not to smile.

“I have a feeling that you know why,” Jim says with a lopsided grin.

I shake my head. “Not me, Doc,” I tell him, innocent slash charming smile firmly in place.

“Let me tell you just how much you lucked out,” he says as he opens my folder. “The hospital you were headed for has been cited for over four hundred complaints just in the last twelve months, the suicide rate there is the worst in the country, and the cafeteria has failed inspection three times in as many months.”

Okay, that is totally ridiculous. Somebody must have had it out for me. “Dude,” I say, my eyes widened.

“At the last minute, the orders were changed, and you were sent here. We have had less than twenty complaints filed against us in the last twelve months, our suicide rate is second best in the country, and our cafeteria has never failed inspection,” he tells me with obvious pride in his voice.

“Huh,” is all I can say.

“Not only that, but we are known for having a wonderful turnaround rate. That’s what it’s called when our patients are medicated and worked with to the point where they pass their psych test and are considered rehabilitated,” Jim explains to me. “Somebody who knows what they’re doing wanted you here,” Jim says, same lopsided smile on his face.

“You know, I think that judge really liked me,” I say with a grin.

Jim shakes his head. “She’s a bitch,” he says.

I let out a bark of laughter. It’s so odd to hear that coming out of his mouth that I just can’t help laughing.

“She’s a bitch, and I wouldn’t doubt it if she took a bribe to get you into where you were headed for,” he says.

I smile down at my hands. I don’t know how Sam did it, but he must have been the one to do this. I guess I can never tease him ever again when I get out of here. He probably saved my life.

“Having said that, I want you to know that, what happened with Jerry, doesn’t happen very often around here,” Jim says.

My stomach clenches, and the smile leaves my face as I look up at Jim. I guess we had to talk about this at some point. I was hoping for never.

“Other hospitals may turn their heads for that kind of behavior, but we don’t take it lightly here. If one patient abuses another, he is sent directly to the maximum security floor. We purposely have a higher staff-to-patient ratio than normal hospitals just so that things like this don’t get ignored. It’s also why we only have males in this wing,” Jim explains.

I really don’t want to talk about this. It’s upsetting, embarrassing as Hell, and it just makes me completely uncomfortable.

“I know you don’t want to talk about this, but I was hoping you would at least try,” Jim says softly.

I shake my head. “It’s not a big deal. Nothing really happened,” I say as I run my sweaty palms over my pants. Nothing happened.

He gives me a friendly, easy-going smile. “Well, if nothing really happened, then you won’t mind telling me about it,” he says with a shrug of his shoulders.

Sneaky bastard. If I tell him about it, then I admit that something happened. If I don’t tell him about it, it shows him that it was enough to affect me, therefore something happened. I frown down at my hands, trying to decide what to say.

“Has anything like this ever happened to you before?” he asks softly.

I shake my head. “I’m not the kind of guy that a lot of people mess around with,” I say with a lopsided grin.

“So nobody’s ever even tried anything with you before?” he asks again.

I shake my head again. “Nope,” I tell him. “If they did, they would sure be sorry they ever even thought about it, though,” I say as I rub my hand over my face.

“Why’s that?” he asks me, even though I think he knows.

“I’d kick the shit out of them,” I say with confidence.

“Is that how you handled things with Jerry?” he asks, again in a way that only a psych doc could get away with.

I suddenly find my hands interesting yet again. “No,” I mumble.

“What happened?” he asks softly.

There are no words to describe my level of discomfiture right now. This isn’t fair. I’m not the pervert. I’ve been a good boy.

Jim puts one leg over the other, thinks for a moment. “A lot of people find that, when they are suddenly thrust into a situation like this one, they freeze. Is that what happened with you?” he asks gently.

I let out a nervous chuckle. “Kind of,” I admit.

“It’s not a sign of weakness that you froze,” Jim tells me.

Yes it is. He’s lying. He has no idea how badly I want to jump off of this couch, run out of this office. I don’t want to talk about this. I’ve already said too much, and now he knows that I got scared.

“I know you think I’m lying, but it’s true. Jerry did something when you weren’t expecting it, and he knew how to handle you,” Jim tells me.

I let out a sigh. I can’t believe I’m about to say this. “I didn’t do anything,” I mumble. “I let him corner me, and the only thing I did while he played with my dick was try to squeeze into the corner like I could disappear,” I say, eyes on my hands, feeling disgusted with myself.

“Jerry’s good at what he does, and he’s not stupid. You’re not the only one he’s done things to,” Jim informs me.

I look Jim in the eyes to see if he’s telling the truth, which he is. I don’t know if what he says makes me happy or not. I’m almost selfishly happy that I wasn’t the only one. Doesn’t that sound horrible? “Did he hurt his kids?” I ask with a wince.

“We don’t know yet,” Jim says with a shrug of his shoulders.

“So it was other people here that he did things to?” I ask, eyes wide.

Jim nods. “Here, in jail, where he worked,” Jim tells me.

“How did you find out so fast?” I ask.

“It’s in his file. We were watching him closely, but obviously not closely enough. We didn’t know he was doing anything here until after you told Robert, but another patient came forward just since this morning,” Jim says.

“And I suppose you can’t tell me who it was,” I say.

“Nope,” he says with a shake of his head.

I feel like shit. This thing is so strange and fucking normal and human that I just don’t know how to handle it.

“Jerry knew what he was doing, Dean. He had the element of surprise, and he had the expertise to know just what to say and do to incapacitate you. Not only that, but the medications you’re on slow your reaction time and fuck with your emotions,” Jim says.

As much as I hate to admit it, getting validated feels great. Not only did a professional just tell me that what I’m feeling is normal, but he also just said that the drugs fuck with you. How often will they own up to that?

“Dean,” Jim says softly, as if knowing that I’m trying to work this all out in my head. He waits until I look up at him before he continues. “This wasn’t your fault,” he tells me.

Ouch. That hit someplace in my chest that I didn’t even realize was there before. The rational side of me says it’s ridiculous that I could be to blame for this, but there’s another part of me that says maybe I was asking for it.

Jim has pearl buttons on today’s shirt as well. They’re much easier to look at than his face for the moment.

Why the Hell am I feeling like this? I’m so confused. I’m going between extremes faster than my medicated brain can keep up with, and I’m left feeling dizzy. I lay my head on the back of the couch, close my eyes. I wrap my arms around my stomach because that’s fucking hurting more, too. And that’s exactly when I get a mental image of Dad hugging me, the thought hitting me hard enough that my breath actually catches in my throat.

I reach up and put my hands over my face, nonchalantly trying to push the burning in my eyes away. I can’t believe I’m freaking out like this. I want out. I want out now. I can’t believe I almost just started fucking crying on this psych doc’s couch. I’m so pathetic. I have to get out of here.

I sit up, rub my damp hands on my pants, hope the doctor doesn’t notice. “Can I get out of here?” I ask, attempting cool and collected, but probably failing miserably.

Jim winces, and actually looks sincerely sorry for me. “I’m sorry, but you’re stuck with me for another fifteen minutes,” he tells me.

“Fuck,” I growl as I flop back onto the couch again, head back, eyes closed. Jim is probably going to have fun with this. He’s gotten a reaction out of me now. I feel myself starting to shake. Well, shake a little more than I already was shaking from the medication. I cringe as I hear Jim change position on the other couch, wonder what’s running through his head.

“Give me the first memory you have of your brother,” Jim says.

“Huh?” I ask stupidly as I look up at him, confusion most likely written all over my face.

“First memory. Sam,” Jim says, not at all making it sound like he’s talking to an idiot.

“Uh, okay, I remember getting to hold him in the hospital the day he was born,” I tell Jim, giving him an odd look. I have no clue where he’s going with this.

“You looked like you needed a change of subject, and talking about Sam seems to make you smile,” Jim says with a sly grin.

Can I give this guy a hug without losing any guy points? I let out a chuckle, wrap my arms around my stomach again.

“This isn’t about making you squirm or throwing you into panic attacks. This is supposed to be a constructive outlet for you, not torture,” Jim says with a kind smile.

“Um, thanks,” I say shyly, feeling sort of silly now that he has said it out loud. That was kind of a panic attack. So first I almost cried, then I had a panic attack. I’m officially the world’s biggest girl.

“If something I say or talk about makes you upset, please feel free to tell me. I’m not here to hurt you,” Jim says.

I shake my head no. “It’s nothing you said. It’s just that I’m not usually into the whole sharing thing,” I tell him with a wince.

“It can be a scary thing,” Jim says with a nod. “I’m just hoping you’ll see one of these days that you’re safe with me.”

I let out another chuckle, look down at my knees. Maybe this guy isn’t so bad. He certainly hasn’t tried to catch me up on anything or twist my words like I thought he would.

“So your parents must have been pretty cool to let such a young kid hold a newborn,” Jim says.

I look up at him with a smile. “They had me sitting in a chair, each of them on one side of me, but yeah, it was cool of them.”

“Have you heard from your brother since you’ve been in here?” Jim asks me.

“No,” I say with a shake of my head. “He’d get busted so quickly his head would spin if he tried to contact me in any way,” I say with a frown.

Jim takes a deep breath and sits forward. “Well, I can officially let you go now, if you want,” he tells me with a smile.

I chuckle at that, and we both stand up. He leads me to the door, opens it for me. I stand there awkwardly for a moment. “Thanks,” I say, knowing that I’m blushing all the way to my ears.

“Anytime,” Jim says with a pat to my shoulder.

I find my book and read for about ten minutes before I fall asleep on the couch, TV doing nothing to make me stay awake.

“Hey,” says a voice from somewhere above me.

I squint up at a grinning Joey. “Hey,” I say with a smile.

“Come eat with me,” he says, holds out his hand in invitation.

I take it, let him pull me up. “I fell asleep,” I dumbly comment.

Joey chuckles. “You sure did,” he says as we turn the corner to the cafeteria.

We get our trays, find an empty table off to the back of the room. It’s Salisbury steak night, it appears, with corn and mashed potatoes.

“Danny’s out,” Joey whispers at me.

“Fuck,” I grumble with a wince.

“I doubt he’s too happy about the fact that he got sent to the Pit over that little incident,” Joey says with a worried look on his face. “It wasn’t your fault, but I don’t think he sees it that way.”

“I don’t think so, either,” I mumble.

“He’s already eaten. He’s out watching TV, so I thought it would be safe to ask you to come eat,” Joey says as he mixes his corn and mashed potatoes together.

“Thanks,” I say with a smile.

We eat in silence for a little while. The food, again, isn’t bad, and I’m actually enjoying the company. I think I like this kid.

“Dean?” Joey says, face pinched.

“Yeah?” I ask, after I swallow.

“I... I’m sorry. About Jerry,” he says quickly.

My eyes widen. “Oh, fuck!” I say a little louder than I probably should as my stomach clenches.

Joey shushes me. “No, calm down,” he says, looking around to make sure nobody is looking. 

“Does everybody fucking know?” I growl, holding my spork tightly enough that it probably should have broken by now.

Joey shakes his head no. “Nobody else knows,” he assures me.

“Then how do you?” I ask, still growling.

“I saw you come out of the shower room before he did,” Joey says.

“I’m failing to make the connection here, Joey,” I say through clenched teeth.

Joey sighs, looks defeated. He seems to work up the courage to speak. “I’m the other guy, okay?” Joey blurts out, thankfully not too loudly.

I instantly deflate. “He hurt you?” I ask, feeling bad that I overreacted.

Those blue eyes focus down on the tray in front of them. “I kind of let him,” Joey mumbles.

I let out a choked noise. “You let him?” I ask, having the feeling it’s not true.

“Well, the first time I really didn’t want to, but--”

“The first time?” I ask, maybe a little too loudly. “How long has he been hurting you?” I ask, getting pretty ticked off.

Joey lets out a whimper. “It’s only been a couple months,” he says miserably. “I know you’re mad at me, but I didn’t--”

“I’m not mad at you, Joey,” I say, cutting the boy off. “I’m incredibly furious at Jerry,” I hiss, “but I am not mad at you.”

Joey looks up at me with a relieved look on his face. “You’re not?” he asks with a lopsided smile.

“No, I’m definitely not,” I say, shaking my head.

Joey’s face falls again. “He wouldn’t have done anything to you if I would have told on him, though,” he says.

“What Jerry did to me was not your fault,” I tell the kid.

Joey smiles at that. He has a nice smile. He looks down at his mashed potato heap and pokes at it a few times. “I just wish they had lube in this place,” Joey growls.

He’s been fucking this kid dry? I squeeze my eyes closed, try not to find some way to get to Jerry, rearrange his face or other areas of his anatomy. By the time I look up at Joey again, he looks concerned. “Did you get checked out in the infirmary?” I ask.

“Yeah,” Joey says with a roll of his eyes. “Got the whole physical. Again,” he grumbles. He continues to play with his food.

I let out a sigh, and Joey looks up at me. “He didn’t do anything to me,” I admit.

A little bit of the worry melts away from Joey’s face. “No?” he asks hopefully.

“He threatened me, and started in with a little groping that wasn’t too pleasant, but that’s all he got a chance to do,” I tell him.

A brilliant smile lights the kid’s face. “Cool,” he says simply.

I smile back at him, and we finish our meal in comfortable silence, Joey actually eating this time instead of just pushing his food around on the tray.

I wake later that night to a nightmare. This time I remember some of it. I remember Sam running from something, but I don’t remember what. I was running after Sam and the whatever, but I wasn’t getting anywhere. That’s all I can remember.

I pace around the room, start pulling my sweat-soaked shirt away from my chest. I wish I could take a shower. That would definitely help. It wouldn’t make everything all better again, but it would feel good.

I’m heading toward the back wall when I hear my door beep. “Fuck!” I growl as my shoulders slump.

I slowly turn around with my hands in the air, my eyes widening as I see not only the orderly, but Greg in the doorway, syringe already in his hand.

I start to inch my way toward my bed. “I’m sorry, guys. I had another nightmare, and I’m sorry. I’ll get back into bed now,” I tell them as I start to climb into bed.

Suddenly the orderly is on me, pins me to the side of the bed. He’s got his left forearm across my upper back, my right arm wrenched around behind me faster than I thought possible.

“No, don’t give me the shot!” I nearly scream. I’m getting really sick of all these fucking shots I’m getting. I yelp as my arm gets pushed a little further up my back. “Don’t! I’m going to bed! No shot! No, please!”

“I’m making a note in your chart to Dr. Richards,” Greg says as he pulls my pants down, pokes me with the fucking needle as I grunt. “He’ll put you on something to help you sleep at night,” Greg tells me, pulls my pants back into place.

The buzzing sensation instantly worsens and I feel fuzzy. The two men lift my lower body up into the bed. Greg pulls the side up on my bed, leaves me without another word as I drift into a dreamless sleep.

 

**THURSDAY – WEEK 1**

“Come on, Dean,” I hear Robert say as he rubs my arm. “I just got done waking Joey up, now I need you, too.”

I groan into the pillow. “They’ve got to stop drugging me!” I complain as loudly as I can for having just awakened.

“That’s going to be fixed today,” Robert says as he pulls on my left arm, gets me into a seated position.

“Oh, fuck! Greg said Richards was going to put me on something to make me sleep!” I say maybe a little too loudly as I push Robert away.

“This will be a good change for you, Dean,” Robert tries to reassure me. “You have trouble sleeping through the night. This will help.”

“I don’t want any more fucking drugs!” I yell at Robert, not really caring at the moment that it’s not his decision. I flop back onto the bed, curl up on my right side, and pull the pillow over my head.

Robert sighs. “You know what’ll happen if you refuse to take the drugs,” he says, not sounding all that thrilled about having to threaten me. Robert just catches the pillow I throw at him, tosses it on the end of the bed.

Now I don’t have a pillow to hide under anymore. “I don’t even want to be on the drugs that I’m on! You can’t make me take more! This is totally fucked!” I yell at him.

“It’s not my choice,” Robert says with a shake of his head.

“Like Hell it isn’t,” I say stupidly. I’m blaming my sudden lack of insight on the fact that I’m not really totally awake yet. “Just stop giving me the fucking pills!” I yell quite loudly.

“Not only is it my job to give you the pills, I really think this will be good for you. It’s going to help you sleep,” Robert cajoles, patient as ever. “If you start sleeping through the night, you won’t get sedated anymore.”

“I think the night crew fucking likes it,” I growl.

“They’re just doing their job,” he tells me calmly. “Come on. Take your morning pills, and worry about this tonight at ten when you start your first dose of the new medication,” Robert says as he starts pulling my legs toward the edge of the bed.

I kick Robert’s hands off my legs more gently than I really want to, pull my legs up against my chest. “Fuck off!” I yell again as I reach out to push at him. Next thing I know, I’m in a sitting position with Robert’s big paws holding my upper arms tightly, Robert’s face close enough to mine that I can feel him breathing.

“I’m trying to be patient with you, Dean, because I like you, but you are seriously heading somewhere I know you don’t want to go. Now either you get up, take the pills that I give you, or you can go to the Pit,” Robert threatens in a low voice, our eyes looking right into one another’s.

I can’t help but shiver. What’s with these people manhandling me like I’m nothing? I’m not a small guy. And there’s no fucking way they’re taking me to the Pit again. That’s just not going to happen.

“One,” Robert barks.

I blink stupidly at him for a moment before I fully understand what he means. By the time I get it, he’s already moving on.

“Two,” he growls.

“Stop counting! Stop counting!” I nearly squeal as I try unsuccessfully to get out of his grip. “Fine, I’ll take the fucking drugs!” I say with less venom in my voice than I meant, probably a deer-in-the-headlights look on my face as well.

“I want to see you out at the nurse’s station in ten minutes, no less. Is that understood?” Robert asks as he backs off a bit.

I can’t help it. The tone of voice and the direct question just get to me. “Yes, sir,” I say, wishing it didn’t come out of me so easily.

Robert lets go of me, takes a step back. He crosses his arms over his chest, making himself look bigger. “After getting your pills, I expect you to go and get breakfast. I don’t want you taking your pills on an empty stomach anymore. It’s not helping the stomachaches you’ve been having.”

“Yes, sir,” I say again.

“Ten minutes,” Robert says again as he heads toward the door.

“Yes, sir,” I mumble as he disappears around the corner. Nine minutes later I’m standing in front of the nurse’s station with a scowl on my face.

“Morning,” Robert says with a lopsided grin.

“Yeah, now you’re all nice and friendly,” I grumble as I take the pills from the counter.

Robert laughs at that. “Oh, but that was me being nice and friendly,” he says, evil grin and raised eyebrow in place.

I chuckle. I wonder for just a moment if he really means what he just said. I hope not, because he was kind of scary, and if that was only semi-ticked, I don’t want to see flat out pissed.

“You’ve got thirteen minutes to get some breakfast before the cafeteria closes,” Robert says as he points his thumb in the direction of the clock behind him.

“Yes, sir,” I say with a smile, take off for the cafeteria. I stop about two steps away, then back up. “Hey, Robert?”

Robert turns to me, eyebrows raised. “Yeah?”

“I, uh, know it’s not your fault that I have to take the drugs, and I’m sorry,” I say awkwardly with a lopsided smile.

Robert smiles at me. “Thank you, Dean,” he says, looking like he truly appreciates it.

I give him another smile before heading for the cafeteria. I eat alone as the place is pretty much cleared out. Joey doesn’t even eat breakfast, so I don’t get to sit with him this morning, either.

“Hold it,” Robert says as I walk by the nurse’s station. “You wouldn’t be sneaking back to your room, would you?”

“Shower,” I say with a toothy grin.

“Okay, then,” Robert says with a nod and a smile.

I’m almost all the way to the shower room when I see Danny come out of it and head my way. I walk a little to the right of the hallway, try to keep my eyes on the floor. Maybe he won’t notice me. Does he look bigger than he did last time, or am I getting smaller in here? I catch a glimpse of Marcus walking our way from the other end of the hall. Maybe Marcus will get there before we do too much damage to each other.

Just as we’re about to pass, Danny takes a step to his left. I swear there is a grin on his face. We run into each other almost hard enough to fall on our asses. As I try to regain my footing, I hear a clattering sound.

“Freeze!” I hear Marcus bark. “Neither of you move! Robert!”

“Coming!” I hear Robert call from far behind me. I hear him jog up to us. “Which one of them had it?” he asks Marcus.

Marcus lets out a sigh. “I didn’t see,” he tells Robert, sounding upset with himself.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Robert pick something up off the floor, pocket it. “I need both of you with your hands on the wall, legs spread,” he tells the two of us.

We both do as he says right away. “What’s wrong?” I ask.

“You got Danny?” Robert asks Marcus.

“Yeah,” Marcus replies as he steps up to Danny’s left side.

Robert comes up to my right side. “Do either of you have anything on you that’s going to stick us?” he asks.

“No, sir,” I reply while Danny shakes his head no. “Robert what--”

“I picked up a razor from the shower room, and it came from one of you,” Robert informs me.

“Oh, fuck!” I say as my whole body tenses even more than it already was.

“Calm down and spread your legs for me,” Robert says softly as he runs the fingers of his left hand through my hair, gently and efficiently checking for anything.

I obey him even though I feel like running. His right hand goes to my crotch while his left hand goes to my ass. The fingers of both of his hands push deep into the creases on each side of my body slowly and carefully. Next his hands move up to my underarms where he repeats the slow inspection. “I wasn’t carrying it, Robert,” I say as the man finishes his search.

“Put your arms down,” he says to me, then pulls me by my upper arm away from Danny and Marcus. “Dean, I’m really sorry about this, but Marcus didn’t see which one of you it came from,” Robert says with a wince.

My eyes widen. “It wasn’t me!” I say a little louder than Robert’s hushed voice.

“I’m sorry, Dean,” Marcus calls over. “I didn’t get a clear shot at it. I’m sorry, man,” he says, sounding almost miserable.

My breathing quickens. I remember the threat not to be caught outside of the shower room with a razor, but I don’t know what they’ll do to me. I don’t know what suicide watch means.

“But it wasn’t me!” I repeat, probably bordering on a bit of a whine to my voice.

“I believe you. I believe you,” Robert says as he rests his right hand on the left side of my neck. It’s comforting in a way that I think I’d only let Robert be. “But Marcus didn’t see, and we can’t just assume it was Danny. That wouldn’t be fair.”

I try to get my breathing to slow down, but I’m scared. They’ve done so much to me already. What could they possibly want to do to me for this? “What are you going to do to me?” I whisper, the backs of my eyes prickling.

Robert’s hand is still on my neck, but his thumb rubs the skin just in front of my left ear. “Calm down, Dean,” he says again. “You’re going to be okay. They’re going to put you on suicide watch.”

I’m desperately trying to not cry. I can’t believe I’m being so emotional about this, but it appears that crying is now the appropriate reaction to fear. “What’s that?”

“Do what they tell you to do, and everything will be fine. No one is going to hurt you, okay?” Robert says in hushed tones, looking me right in the eye.

I nod my head. “What are they going to do?” I sound pathetic even to my own ears.

Robert waves somebody over. “This is Jason. He’s going to take care of you,” Robert says. “Jason, this is Dean.”

I’m sure my eyes widen so much it’s comical, but Jason is just plain huge. His arms are bigger than should be humanly possible. 

“Come with me, Dean,” Jason says kindly as he wraps his left hand around my right upper arm.

I look back at Robert over my shoulder. “Just do what they say,” Robert tells me again, gives me a reassuring smile.

Jason pulls me along until we get into an elevator. He punches a floor, but I’m so nervous and shaking so hard, I don’t really pay attention.

“It’s really not as bad as they make it sound, Dean,” Jason reassures me. “It’s really just twenty-four hours of observation to make sure you don’t hurt yourself.”

“Oh,” I say, totally unconvinced.

We step off the elevator onto a floor that is pretty much just like the one we left behind. We walk for a while, but I’m still not paying attention. Jason uses his key card to get us into a room that is quite large.

On the right there is an area set aside for shower heads on the wall, a few urinals, and a couple of stalls with toilets. On the left there are three glass cubes, just the right size for what would otherwise be called cells. There is nothing in any of the cubes. There are no beds and no toilets. Jason pulls me over to the last cube on the left, opens the door. It’s then that I see a folded blanket on the floor of the cube.

“Take off your clothes, please,” Jason says.

“Seriously?” I ask, eyebrows raised.

Jason gives me a smile. “Yes, take off your clothes,” he says. He doesn’t sound mean about it, but I think he’s trying not to laugh at my reaction.

“Everything?” I ask with a wince even though I’m not really wearing much to begin with.

Jason chuckles. “Yes, everything,” he tells me.

I kick off the slippers, then pull the shirt over my head. He takes the shirt from me, then the pants when I get them off.

“You’ll be watched at all times by that camera,” Jason says as he points to the camera in the ceiling just outside the cube. “Orderlies will come in periodically to check on you throughout the next twenty-four hours. Do what the orderlies say, and let them know if you need anything, okay?”

“Okay,” I say, still completely unsure about all this.

“You already had your morning medication?” Jason asks as he gestures for me to go into the cube.

“Yes, sir,” I say as I walk in.

Jason closes the glass door behind me. “Someone will be in tonight at ten p.m. to give you your nighttime medication,” Jason tells me.

“Wouldn’t want to miss that,” I say with a grimace.

Jason smiles at me. “Any more questions?” he asks as he balls my clothes up and puts them under his left arm.

“Nope,” I say.

“Okay, then, if all goes well, I’ll be in to pick you up tomorrow at this time,” Jason says, then leaves me alone.

I let out a deep sigh. This is going to be fun. There is absolutely nothing in the cube but the blanket, and it’s a small one at that. I look up at the frosted glass ceiling with lights behind it and squint. It’s not really that bright, but I swear these medications make any kind of brighter light hurt.

“Take off your clothes, please,” I hear a man say from outside the cube.

I look over at the cube closest to the door to see an orderly standing just outside of it with Danny. Danny takes of his clothes, steps into the cube, and the orderly closes the door.

“Let us know if you need anything,” the orderly says before he leaves.

Since the cubes are all class, and there’s nothing in any of the cubes, Danny and I have a full view of each other’s cubes. Danny gives me a sly grin before he sits down on the floor with his back up against the far wall facing me. He crosses his legs at the ankles, leans back on his hands, and just looks at me.

Okay, so I’m pretty certain that Danny did this on purpose. Not that I can do or say anything about it without either getting into trouble or getting the shit beat out of me by Danny.

It’s actually kind of warm in here. I would have expected it to be colder, especially considering the nudity, but it’s nice. 

I pick up the little blanket and unfold it. It’s square, about long enough to reach from my shoulders to mid thighs. I fold it back up put it on the floor in front of the glass wall farthest from Danny. I sit down facing him, pull my knees up, and wrap my arms around my legs.

Maybe I’m not the picture of confidence that Danny is, but I just don’t feel like posturing. I’m tired of what Danny’s doing. It’s all so childish. I don’t know why he’s fixated on me, but I would appreciate it if he would stop. I don’t want him to focus on someone else, but this is ridiculous. 

This is going to be a long twenty-four hours. There are no clocks anywhere, and I obviously don’t have a wristwatch.

After a while of sitting there, I cross my arms over my knees, rest my forehead on my arms. Why couldn’t they have given me a bed? I could have slept for twenty-four hours straight the way I’m feeling with these drugs. I promise I wouldn’t try to kill myself with the mattress.

Now that I think about it, I wouldn’t even be able to do much with a big blanket, if they decided to give me one. There’s nothing to hang myself on even if I could rip a blanket into strips.

I know they’re being careful, and that this is specifically for those who have shown a tendency toward harming themselves, but it just seems a little like overkill to me. I know I shouldn’t feel that way, but I think I deserve to be a little bitter after everything that’s happened to me.

I wake a few times, shift, fall back to sleep. In between times of unconsciousness, I complain silently about my situation.

“Dean,” I hear a voice call. Then my door opens.

I look up to see Greg walking in. “Oh, shit,” I grumble as I rub my hands over my face.

Greg crouches down in front of me, pulls a syringe out of his left pocket, a pill out of his right. “I’m going to give you a choice. You can either take the new pill, or Jason and I can give you a shot,” Greg offers as he holds up each item in front of himself. He’s already got his gloves on like’s ready to give me the shot.

I warily take the pill from his right hand, down it. I keep looking back and forth from the syringe to Greg’s face.

“I was hoping you might choose that option,” he says as he puts the syringe back into his pocket. “So how are you doing in here? Do you need anything?” Greg asks, looking genuinely interested.

His demeanor is throwing me off. Why is he being so nice to me? “Well, you could do something about the air conditioning. It’s fucking hot in here,” I say with a snarl. I can’t help myself. I should really learn to not do this. Lashing out when you’re scared is not only juvenile, it also backfires most of the time.

“You’re hot?” Greg asks, brows drawing together. I nod. “Well that’s odd. Most of the time the guys complain about it being cold even though we keep the temperature a little warmer in here than the rest of the hospital,” Greg says.

Greg lifts his left hand and reaches toward my head. I squeeze my eyes closed, pull my head back so fast that it actually makes quite a noise when it hits the glass.

“You know, just because I’m he who wields the syringe, it doesn’t mean I’m the bad guy,” he says softly as his hand gently comes to rest on my forehead.

I open my eyes and look him in the face. I realize that I’m breathing a little bit heavily, and I try to calm myself down. Did he mean what he just said?

“You do feel a little warm,” he says, then turns to Jason. “Get me the thermometer, would you?” he asks, then turns back to me. “Have you had any sore throat or cough, earaches, that sort of thing?” he asks me.

“No,” I say, starting to feel stupid for being mean to him. He really seems concerned.

His right hand joins his left on my throat as he feels around for a moment. “Is your neck stiff?”

“No,” I say.

“Look up,” he says, then pulls each lower eyelid down, takes a look. “Go ahead and lie down for me,” Greg says as he gestures toward the floor.

I do as he tells me, feeling extremely vulnerable and nervous. I feel like hiding beneath the blanket, what little that would do to protect me.

“Have you had any stomachaches?” Greg asks as he starts to move his hands over my stomach and chest, pushing in, touching everywhere.

“No more than usual,” I tell him without even grumbling.

“The meds give you stomach troubles?” he asks as he moves to my lower stomach.

“Yeah,” I say.

His hands move even lower, and I can’t help but hiss. “Does that hurt?” he asks, concern evident in his tone of voice.

“I have to piss,” I tell him with a wince.

“Okay, good, then we can get a urine sample from you,” Greg says as he gently pushes on my lower stomach.

I grimace, but try not to make any noise. Jason comes to the doorway, hands Greg the thermometer.

“Thanks, Jason,” he says, then turns to me. “Can you sit up again for me?”

I obey him, get onto my folded blanket again, lean against the wall with my legs up against my chest again.

Greg holds the thermometer in my ear until it beeps, then reads it. “You’ve got a little bit of a temperature. It’s nothing to get worried about yet, but I want to keep an eye on you,” he says as he stands up, puts the thermometer in one of his pockets. He reaches out to me for a hand up. “I hate to do this to you, but could you get a specimen cup, too?” Greg asks Jason as he pulls me up.

“No problem,” Jason says as he takes off again.

“Do you feel sick, or are you just warm?” Greg asks.

“If I said sick, would I get a bed tonight?” I ask with a hopeful grin.

Greg chuckles at that. “You would if I thought you were telling the truth,” he says.

“I take it that’s a no, then,” I say with a raised eyebrow.

“A big one,” he says with a smile.

I can’t take silence. I don’t know what is wrong with me, but I just can’t take it. “So then this bad guy routine--”

“If I was easy on any of you guys, would you ever listen to me?” Greg asks with a lopsided smile.

“Ah, point taken,” I say. “But do you have to do it so well?” I ask, keeping it light.

Greg chuckles again. “I’m good at my job,” he says. “And you guys love me for it, don’t you?” he asks with a laugh.

“I’ll have to ask some of the other guys, but I’m thinking love isn’t the word they would use,” I say with a smile.

Jason comes back and hands the cup to Greg. “Come on. Let’s go spend some quality time together before I have to lock you back up again,” Greg says as he walks out of the cube.

I follow him, Jason shadowing me. Greg walks up to the urinals, takes the top off the cup, hands it to me. This is awkward. I don’t know if Jason thinks I’m going to bolt, but he’s standing on my right side while Greg is on my left. They’re closer than I would consider comfortable.

“Fill the cup about halfway,” Greg instructs me.

Now here’s the funny part. I have never been able to piss in front of other people, not even Dad or Sam. Dad thought it was hilarious, while Sam was actually quite pleased about it. It has meant running around to the backs of bars when the restrooms are full, getting teased mercilessly by a father who could go anywhere and anytime he pleased, and holding it if no other options were available. And it doesn’t seem to matter how drunk I am, either.

I take my dick in hand and position it over the cup, close my eyes, pretend there aren’t two men waiting for me to do my thing. I can hear each of them breathing. It’s not helping. I try to give it a little time, but it seems like it’s taking forever. I let out a growl as nothing happens.

“Problem?” Greg asks, eyebrow raised.

I let out a nervous chuckle. “I can’t go,” I mumble.

He gets that concerned look on his face again. “Does it happen often, or is this--?”

“I can’t go unless I’m alone,” I interrupt him, dejected tone to my voice.

“Well that’s not going to happen,” Greg tells me.

“I know,” I say, even more defeated.

“If you can’t go, I’m going to have to catheterize you,” Greg says.

I whip my head around to look at him. “Oh, shit! No! Don’t!” I say with wide eyes.

“I’m sorry, Dean, but you’ve only got two choices,” Greg says as he shrugs his shoulders.

“Fuck!” I grumble.

“Calm down. You’re only going to make it worse if you get upset,” Greg says.

“Okay, I’m calm. I’m calm,” I tell the men, shake my shoulders out, lean my head back, and close my eyes.

What seems like an eternity later, I feel Greg’s right hand on my upper back. “I’m going to do something that might hurt a little, but it’ll help,” he says, and before I can say yes or no, he reaches over with his left hand, pushes two fingers right over my bladder.

I gasp as the pain and pressure build, then finally I start to piss. I fill the cup halfway as asked, then finish in the urinal, Greg having taken his hands away as soon as I started to go.

I turn to Greg. “Thanks, I think,” I say with a confused look on my face.

Greg just chuckles at me. “Let’s get you locked back up,” he says as we walk back over to the cubes. “I’ll take this to the infirmary, and let you know if anything comes back on it.”

“Okay,” I say as I walk into the cube.

“I want you to tell one of the orderlies if you start feeling worse, okay?” Greg asks as he closes my door.

“Yes, sir,” I say as I walk back over to my spot on the floor.

“That new pill is going to make you feel a little funny, though, so keep that in mind,” Greg informs me.

“Funny how?” I ask as I look up at him from my seat on the floor.

“Mostly it’s going to help you sleep, but some people complain about upset stomach, dizziness, dry mouth, and other things like that,” he says.

“Okay,” I say as I rub my hands over my face, already feeling tired.

“I’ll check on you again before Robert comes on in the morning,” Greg says with a wave as he turns to leave.

I’m alone again. At least Danny isn’t staring at me. He conked out a little while back, and didn’t seem to mind all of the conversation going on in the room just now. I am so fucking tired. I really would appreciate a bed right about now.

I pull the blanket out from under me, lie down on the floor, and use the blanket as a pillow as I start to feel dizzy. I feel like my body is moving slowly. My eyes are blinking too slowly.

I know I should have expected it, but I still groan when my stomach starts to hurt more. New medication equals more stomach troubles. It’s actually gurgling this time. I hope they don’t try to make me eat breakfast with my stomach feeling this way.

“Dean,” I hear Greg say, but it sounds tinny and far away. He’s back already?

I groan loudly, try to bat him away. My arms aren’t moving like they should, though, and although it should probably scare me, I couldn’t care less at the moment.

“I know it’s a pretty strong medication, Dean, but I need to see if you’re okay,” Greg says as he grabs me by my upper arms, starts to sit me up.

I let out a noise that I think was meant to be a word as I feel myself moved around. I finally start to get my eyes open, but the light is so bright they begin to water. I squeeze them closed again.

“I’m sorry I have to do this, but I really need to check you out. Can you say anything? Can you tell me how you’re feeling?” Greg asks as he sits me up and pushes me against the glass wall.

“Tired,” I mumble as my head lolls back and hits the wall with a soft thump. I don’t think what came out was actually a word, though. I let out a whimper as Greg lifts my left eyelid. My left eye waters even more when he finally lets the lid go. I try to jerk my head away as the right eyelid it lifted, but I’m already up against the wall.

“His breathing and his pulse are pretty slow, but his pupils are still equal and reacting,” Greg says to someone.

“Do you want to take him up to the infirmary?” I hear Jason ask.

“Robert said the drugs were all hitting him pretty hard. I’m wondering if maybe he’s just going to be totally knocked out by this new tranquilizer,” Greg says as he starts to lay me down again.

I feel myself laid down on my right side with my back up against the glass wall, the blanket under my head.

“I’m going to check on him in an hour. In the meantime I want a check every fifteen minutes on him. If he starts vomiting, you call me immediately,” Greg says, sounding very concerned.

“Yes, sir,” Jason says, sounding equally concerned.

“I laid him on his side in case he vomits, but he might roll over in his sleep, so keep an eye on him,” Greg says.

“Tired,” I mumble again, happy that Greg let me lay back down.

I hear the Greg’s feet move away, my door close, then the two men leave. It’s still too bright even with my eyes closed. Why can’t they turn the lights off at night?

“How are you feeling, Dean?” Greg asks.

I squeeze my eyes closed. I thought he was going to leave me alone for a while to sleep. I don’t want to get up yet.

“Come on, Dean,” Greg says as he grabs my upper arms and gets me into a seated position once again. “Can you hear me?”

I let out a moan. Why is he bothering me? I just want to sleep. Nobody around here ever just lets me do what I want to do. I don’t even bother trying to get away this time as Greg checks my pupils. Then I feel a pinch on my stomach. I yelp, try to push away from Greg, but I’m not strong or coordinated enough to do much.

“He’s responding to pain, his pupils are still equal and reacting, and his breathing and pulse are a little better. I think it’s safe to let him sleep this off, but I still want you guys to check on him every hour. I still definitely want to know if he starts vomiting,” Greg says as he slides me back down to the floor.

I hear both men talking more, but it sounds funny, so I ignore it. They leave soon enough, and I’m able to go back to sleep.


	2. Week 2

**FRIDAY – WEEK 2**

“Hey, Dean,” I hear Robert say. His right hand starts rubbing my still shirtless back.

“No,” I groan, still not quite aware of my surroundings. As I remember where I am, I also realize that I’m lying on my stomach on the floor, my arms being used as a pillow, and I’ve drooled so much that my arm is soaked. I think the worst part is that I just can’t be bothered to do anything about it.

Thankfully Robert uses the little blanket to wipe my arm, tosses it to the side. “Can you sit up for me?” he asks.

“He wasn’t even able to talk to me last night,” Greg says.

Robert lets out a sigh. “Richards just has this idea in his head that this guy is just going to go postal on us. I saw the dosage on that med,” Robert says, sounding ticked. “If Richards were to spend more than five fucking seconds with him...,” Robert trails off.

“I know. If it were up to us, it would be different, but it’s just not our choice,” Greg says.

“I want him back in his room,” Robert says after a few moments of silence.

“Robert--”

“No, Greg, he shouldn’t just be passed out like this on the floor. This isn’t right. I want him back in his room, and I’m getting him an appointment with both Richards and Jim today,” Robert says.

Greg sighs. “I’ll go get a wheelchair and a change of clothes for him,” he says, then walks away.

Robert runs his fingers through my hair. “I need you to wake up, Dean,” he tells me. “I need you to talk to me. We’re going to take you back to your room, but if you won’t talk to me, I’m taking you to the infirmary,” he threatens gently.

“No!” I say as loud as I can manage.

“There we go,” Robert says, sounding a little relieved. “Can you say anything other than no?” he asks, smile evident in the tone of his voice.

“Tired,” I tell him like he doesn’t know.

His fingers are still in my hair. It feels good. “I know you are, and I’m sorry,” he says, sounding sad. “I’m trying to help you out, buddy, but I’m going up against some pretty tough forces,” he informs me.

“Fuck ‘em,” I grumble. Robert starts laughing at that. He sounds relieved again, and I’m suddenly glad I made the effort to say it.

“I wish it were that easy, man. I truly do,” he says.

I hear Greg’s shoes again on the floor, and then the two of them are dressing me. They get me into the wheelchair, and soon we’re out in the corridor.

“You sure you don’t want the doc to take a look at him?” Greg asks from my right side.

Robert has got his left hand on my neck, holding my head up, his right hand on the handle of the wheelchair. “I really don’t think he needs anything done. I think he just needs to sleep it off. Besides that, the guy stresses so bad about the doc touching him that I think it might do more harm than good,” Robert tells Greg.

I think I fall asleep again on the ride, because suddenly the men are putting me into bed, drawing the blanket over me, pulling the railing up so I don’t fall out of bed.

“Okay, you go ahead and get out of here,” Robert says to Greg. “You’re already late.”

Greg snorts. “Like you never stay late,” Greg says sarcastically.

“Go home,” Robert says again as the two men leave my room.

“Yeah, yeah,” Greg says in the hallway.

The bed feels awesome. I can’t believe I wasn’t sleeping on it all this time. Drooling on the floor is no fun. I shove my face into the pillow, sniff at the clean smell. My stomach hurts, but I’m too tired to care. There’s a buzzing in my head that’s drawing me toward it. It’s dark in there.

I awaken at the sound of my railing being lowered again. The buzzing has backed off to a reasonable level, and I don’t feel like some kind of a boneless being anymore.

“Anybody get the license plate?” I grumble, and it actually sounds to me like what came out of my mouth was what I meant to say.

“That wasn’t a truck that hit you last night,” Robert says with a laugh.

I manage to sit up against the wall my bed is up against. I groan, rub my face with both hands. “Not that last night wasn’t a load of fun, but they aren’t seriously going to make me take that shit again, are they?” I ask as I prop myself up by my hands on either side of me, hoping I don’t fall back down to the bed.

“I talked to Richards,” Robert says.

I look up at him hopefully. “Yeah?” I ask, eyebrow raised.

“Between Jason, Greg, and I, we convinced Richards to give you a sleep aid instead of a tranquilizer at night,” Robert tells me with a smile.

I smile at him. “Dude, you do realize that, if I could stand on my own, I would kiss you right about now, right?”

Robert chuckles. “Yeah, well, before you get too affectionate, I’m going to tell you your schedule for the day,” he tells me with a smile as he crosses his arms over his chest.

“It’s that bad?” I ask with a wince.

“It’s noon right now, and I want you to get into the cafeteria for some lunch before I give you your pills. Then I’m going to help you to the showers. After that, you’ve got an appointment with Jim,” he lists for me.

“Aw, man, why the appointment with Jim?” I whine. I never thought I would be the type to whine. Apparently putting enough drugs into your system leads to behavior that is different from the norm.

“You missed your appointment yesterday because of the whole razor incident,” Robert informs me.

“Oh, I thought I had gotten away with that,” I saw with a scowl.

“You’d choose to be on suicide watch over talking to Jim?” Robert asks with a raised eyebrow and a grin.

“Anytime,” I tell him seriously with a yawn.

Robert just chuckles. “Think you can stand up yet?” Robert asks.

“I guess so,” I mumble.

“Lean on me as much as you have to,” Robert says as he holds out his hands.

I slide off the bed and manage to stand on my own, Robert’s hands hovering just in case. “I’m good,” I reassure the man, then walk over and step into my slippers.

Robert hovers all the way to the cafeteria, comes back when I’m done eating to hover all the way to the showers, where he hovers as I take a shower. He walks me to Jim’s door after he gives me my medication.

“Can’t you just tell him I was too tired to come to the appointment?” I whisper as we stand at Jim’s door.

“Be nice,” Robert says softly. “He didn’t have any open appointments today, so he’s actually seeing you at his lunch hour. That’s why I’m bringing you here at ten to one. He said to bring you whenever you were ready,” Robert tells me.

“Fuck!” I grumble. “Now I have to talk to him, you jerk!” I say quietly.

Robert just chuckles and knocks on Jim’s door. “Be nice,” Robert says again, then turns and walks away.

“Hi, Dean,” Jim says with a big smile on his face. “Come on in,” he says as he gestures with his left arm to the second room.

“Hey, Jim,” I say with a smile as I walk in and sit down on the couch I normally take. I cringe inwardly as I realize I actually have a normal place to sit now.

Jim sits down, smile still firmly in place. I don’t see my file anywhere. “Well, Robert not only sent you here because you missed your appointment yesterday, but he also thought it would be a good idea for us to talk about your medications. It’s up to you, though. We can talk about anything you want, and nobody can do a thing about it,” Jim tells me with a sly grin.

I chuckle. I can’t help it. I’m starting to like this guy. I’ve always heard negative things about shrinks, things that scared me as well as pissed me off about them. Now that I’ve actually been experiencing one, I’m wondering whether Jim is special or if I’ve been getting some bad info. “I don’t mind if we talk about drugs,” I say easily.

“A lot of people have a really hard time adjusting to medications,” Jim says sympathetically. “In here it can be even worse because of the amount they start you off with. I’ve seen your regimen, and I don’t blame you one bit for being upset with the way the medications are being handled.”

I let out a grunt. “Everything makes me tired, makes my stomach hurt, makes me dizzy, makes my brain run slower than normal,” I complain.

“Do you know why they’ve got you on so many medications?” Jim asks me.

I wince at that, look down at my hands. I believe the last psych doc said something like “very troubled.” It was a nice way of saying sicko. I could see it in the man’s eyes. He was scared of me. The guards they had watching over me didn’t seem to calm the man down one bit. “They’re scared of me,” I finally mumble.

“They’re trying to help you the best way they know how,” Jim says softly.

I shake my head. “They’re trying to keep me from losing it, taking everybody out,” I tell him.

“You’ve done a lot, Dean,” Jim replies. “But in spite of Richards’ personality, the man really does care about his patients. He’s doing what he believes is right, what he does best.”

I look up at Jim. “And leaving me drooling on the floor of a cell is helping me?” I ask through clenched teeth, suddenly amazingly pissed off.

“It only seems harsh when you take it out of context,” Jim says, taking it in stride.

I snort. “And what context is that?”

“Well firstly the man thought you were going to be in your bed last night. He didn’t hear about you being put on suicide watch until this morning,” Jim informs me.

“And?” I push.

“And you’ve actually been handling the doses of the medications you’ve been given quite well, so he assumed you would be able to handle the higher dose of tranquilizer that he gave you,” Jim says.

“I’ve been handling the other medications well?” I ask, incredulous, my voice maybe getting a little bit louder.

“I’m sure Robert’s told you that other people would be drooling on the meds you’ve been put on, hasn’t he?” I nod. “Something you may not be aware of is that, when people are first brought in, they are put on quite high doses of medications. If they do well, start acting appropriately, they are very slowly tapered down on some of the medications. You only got here a week ago. Not only that, but you have fought treatment. The more you fight, refuse to do as you’re told, the more medication they’re going to put you on.”

I know what he’s saying is true, but I still don’t want to accept it. This is sick. They can’t treat people like this. This isn’t treatment. It’s torture.

“Your choices in life have brought you to this point. Now you have to accept the consequences of those actions,” Jim says softly, probably knowing I won’t take it well.

Oh, Hell, no! I’ve dedicated my life to saving people, hunting the things that go bump in the night, and this is my reward? I think I’m breathing heavier. I can’t believe how upset I am.

Jim must be able to tell. “You don’t think--”

“I-I was...,” I interrupt him, then stop myself. I can’t tell him. What’ll they do to me if they really know what I was doing? I can feel my skin start to flush, my breathing get heavier.

“What were you--”

“I was... I was...” I cut him off again, then cut myself off yet again. I run my hands over my face. I’m shaking. I can’t tell him. I can’t. 

“C’mon, Dean,” Jim softly encourages. He knows I’m close to just telling him everything. “Tell me what you were doing.”

“Fuck!” I yell as I stand up. “I can’t fucking do this!” I yell as I head for the door.

“Dean,” I hear Jim call for me as the man stands up to come after me.

I slam the door shut behind me, walk a few feet down the hallway, then let myself slide down the wall, pull my legs up against my chest, rest my arms on my knees, my head on my arms. I hear Jim’s door open. “Leave me the fuck alone!” I yell at him.

I hear Richards’ door open. “I’ve got it,” Jim tells Richards, and the door closes again.

“Leave me the fuck alone,” I tell Jim again not nearly as loudly, but not lifting my head up.

Jim sits down beside me, leaving just enough room between us that I can feel his heat, but we’re not actually touching.

“Please. I can’t...”

“Can’t what, Dean?” Jim asks. “What are you afraid of?”

I let out a bitter bark of laughter. “I’m scared they’re going to put me on more drugs. I’m scared they’re going to give me ECT. I’m scared I’ll be put in a padded room. I’m scared they’re going to kill me. I’m scared they’re going to kill my brother,” I blurt out at him.

“Those are all very valid fears, but tell me something, Dean,” Jim says.

“What?” I growl, still not lifting my head up.

“Are you planning on killing anyone right now?” he asks me, his voice sounding conversational, belying the nature of the question.

“No,” I groan.

“Do you know of any plans that your brother has to kill someone?” he asks, same tone to his voice.

“No,” I growl. I want my brother left out of this. I want him left out of everything to do with this shithole.

Jim leans into me. “Then who and what am I going to tell?” he whispers, then leans back into his own space.

I’m confused. He’s the doctor. He has to tell on me. “Huh?” I ask stupidly as I raise my head from my arms and look at him.

“What my patients tell me is confidential. Unless I know a crime is about to be committed, I do not tell anyone else what is said to me in confidence,” Jim tells me.

“Yeah, right,” I scoff.

“It’s true. Not only is it something that’s important to me, but I could get fired and get my license taken from me for breaking patient confidence,” Jim says, sounding sincere.

“So I tell you something totally whacked, and you’re telling me that you won’t have me sent to a padded room or hooked up to the ECT machine?” I ask, totally disbelieving.

“I merely give Richards suggestions for treatment, and I personally have never made the suggestion that someone get ECT. I happen to think it does more harm than good,” Jim says.

“So you’re saying I should just tell you everything, not worry about anything? How can you expect that out of me?” I ask him.

“I really wish you would trust me, Dean,” Jim says as he stands up. “It would do you a world of good to just be able to talk freely to me,” he says as he walks to his door. He stops with his hand on the doorknob. “You think about it. Let me know how you feel about it on Tuesday,” he says, then goes into his office, closes the door.

 

**SATURDAY – WEEK 2**

“Hey, Dean,” a man’s voice calls from the bedside.

I squint up to see a bald man in his mid thirties in scrubs. “Hey,” I reply.

“Robert’s off today, so you get me instead. He asked that I come in and make sure you woke up okay after your new medication,” the man explains.

I rub my hands over my face. “Um, yeah, I don’t feel that horribly drugged. I think I can make it,” I say with a bit of a smile as I sit up.

“My name is Kieran, but everybody just calls me Key,” the man tells me.

“Nice to meet you, Key,” I say as I hold out my hand.

He shakes my hand. “Hey, would you mind waking Joey up? He’s kind of down because they put him on a new medication that’s making him sleep harder. And I know he likes you better than the rest of us nurses, anyway,” Key says with a shrug of his shoulders.

“No problem,” I say as I slide off the bed.

“Thanks,” he says with a smile. “I’ll see you in a few minutes for your morning meds,” he says as he walks out of the room.

I make my way to Joey’s room, two doors down from mine. I wonder along the way why they changed the kid’s meds on him, wonder if it has something to do with Jerry.

Joey’s got his back to me, and he’s all scrunched up into a little ball. “Hey, kid,” I say as I walk up to Joey’s bed. “Time to get up,” I say as I rub his right arm.

I hear a groan come from the boy. “What are you doing down this way?” he mumbles, sounding pretty groggy as he stretches out, rolls onto his back, and looks up at me.

“I wanted to see if you felt like escorting me to the cafeteria for some breakfast,” I say as I hold a hand out to him.

He takes the hand, and we manage to get him to the edge of his bed. “I’m not hungry, but I’ll come with,” he offers.

“Cool,” I say as he slides off the bed.

“It sounds like you’re sleeping better at night,” Joey comments as we get out into the hallway.

“What do you mean? How did you know I wasn’t sleeping well at night?” I ask, puzzled.

“Are you kidding, man? I think everybody on this floor knows by now just how much you don’t like shots with all that screaming,” Joey says with a grin.

I blush, let out a nervous chuckle. “It’s that bad?” I ask with a wince.

Joey just laughs. “So are they knocking you out?” he asks, still smiling.

“They did the first night, then they changed the med to a regular old sleeping pill, and I slept fine last night without being too out of it to get up this morning,” I tell him, quite pleased myself about the results. I take the pill cup from Key, down my morning pills.

“They weren’t too mean to you when you were on suicide watch, were they?” Joey asks.

“No, in fact I didn’t even stay there for the full twenty-four hours. I was so drugged with the tranquilizer, they brought me back to my room to drool on my own pillow instead of the floor,” I tell him with a smile.

“I guess they don’t have to worry about you offing yourself when you can barely breathe,” Joey says with a chuckle.

“I guess not,” I say as we get to the cafeteria. I walk over, get a tray, then follow Joey to a table in the back.

“What do you miss most about being on the outside?” Joey asks as we settle down at the table.

“Oh, I miss driving my baby,” I say with a groan, then stab a piece of fruit with my spork.

Joey gets a bit smile on his face. “And what kind of car is your baby?” he asks, seeming very interested.

“She’s not just a car,” I tell him with a grin as I chew on some sausage. “She’s a black 1967 Chevy Impala,” I say with pride.

“Sweet,” Joey says. “So what kind of job did you have that paid for such a nice car?”

“Pops gave it to me,” I say with a grin.

Joey chuckles. “Ah, that’s even better than having to slave away for years to get it for yourself.”

“Dad kept it in great condition, too,” I tell him. “So what do you miss most?” I ask him.

“I miss laying on my bedroom floor with a speaker on each side of my head, music blaring until I swear my ears bled,” he says with a big smile.

“I miss music, too,” I groan. “What kind?” I ask as I smash my eggs a bit.

“Death metal,” he says. “The employees around here don’t like the word death so much, so I tell them I like metal. Well, everybody except Jim. Jim gets that I’m not going to kill just because I’ve listened to a song,” Joey says with a roll of his eyes.

I chuckle at that. “My brother likes that emo rock. You know, that whiney shit? He loves it,” I tell him with a shiver.

“Oh, man, I am truly sorry for you,” Joey says with a wince.

“And do you know what the worst part is?” I ask.

“What?”

“I miss him so much, I’d even listen to it again. But don’t tell him that,” I say, whispering the last part.

Joey chuckles. “I’m sorry you miss him so much. Sometimes I wished I had a brother, but then I figured I’d probably fight with him so much I’d hate him,” Joey tells me.

I nod. “We do fight. We get into it bad sometimes. But I never regret that my parents had him, and I’d do anything for him,” I tell Joey.

“That’s cool. I guess I’m just too selfish to have a sibling,” he says with a bark of laughter.

“Well, I don’t know about you, but I think I need to take a shower,” I tell Joey. “See you at group later?”

“Man, don’t you ever look at that schedule next to your door?” Joey asks with his eyebrow raised.

“Why would I do that when everybody around here tells me what I’m supposed to be doing twenty-four hours a day?” I ask, shrug my shoulders.

Joey giggles. “Group is only on the weekdays. Jim’s off on the weekends,” he informs me.

“You’ve just brightened my day a little bit, you know that?” I ask with a big grin.

“What, Jim was going to fuck up your plans for the day or something?” Joey asks.

“Or something,” I say with a smile as I walk away.

 

**MONDAY – WEEK 2**

I actually wake up by myself. I roll around in bed for a while, enjoying just getting a chance to be alone, do what I want.

Saturday and Sunday went by slowly but without incident between reading and talking with Joey. The kid is really great company. He’s easy to talk to, and he’s actually pretty smart. He’s like a good mix of Sam and I. He’s smart, but still has enough charm to pull off talking with people.

Robert has a smile on his face as I pick up my morning medication. “Hey, Robert. Nice weekend?” I ask with a smile of my own.

Robert chuckles. “Actually it sucked, but it’s great to see you out of bed before noon without someone having to drag you out of it,” he says with a smile.

“I’m sorry your weekend sucked,” I say sympathetically.

Robert shrugs. “Well, when you live alone and don’t have a hobby, work becomes your life. When your boss forces you to go home, it begins to suck, therefore the weekend sucked,” he tells me.

“Ooh, know the feeling, and it sucks big time,” I say with a wince. “But I think your weekend actually sucked because you missed me so badly,” I say with a toothy grin.

Robert laughs at that as he pushes my pill cup toward me. “Yes, that’s it exactly. You know, you might want to have that ego checked out,” Robert says with a big smile.

“Why? It’s working perfectly fine,” I say, then down the pills.

“Go eat breakfast before your head’s too big to fit through the cafeteria door,” Robert says as I walk away laughing.

I sit alone to eat. Joey must still be sleeping. The cafeteria is pretty full, so I decide to shower while everyone else is eating. I hurry to finish eating while everyone else takes their time.

I stop by my room to pick up a new set of scrubs, then make my way to the shower room. I set my scrubs on the counter as I take a look around to make sure I’m alone. For some reason that’s quite important as of late. That’s when I see the legs of someone sitting on the floor in one of the stalls.

“Shit,” I grumble as I make my way over there, figuring somebody passed out because of the ridiculous amount of drugs they give you here. “Oh, fuck!” I yell as get a full view of Danny sitting semiconscious on the floor to the left of the toilet.

There’s blood everywhere. There’s so much that I can’t even tell where it’s coming from at first. Then I see that Danny’s arms are cut lengthwise most of the way up each arm, blood streaming from the cuts fast enough to make my stomach lurch.

Years of training kick in, and the shock gets out of my system pretty quickly. I rush out to the hallway. “Robert! Somebody help!” I scream down the hallway.

I then grab an armful of towels from the wall, scramble over to Danny once again. I fall down onto my knees into the blood that’s pooled on the floor, start to wrap a towel around each arm. I can’t hold onto both arms, so I just apply pressure to one. It’s not enough, but hopefully somebody will be here soon to help.

“Fuck off, you prick,” Danny says, slurring badly, eyes barely open.

I don’t want the guy to try and fight me off, but I don’t want him to give up and drift off, either. He closes his eyes, and I feel my pulse quicken. “Make me, dumbass,” I growl.

His eyes pop back open again. He gets a bit of a scowl on his face. “Get off me, motherfucker,” he slurs again, this time with a bit more force behind his voice.

I hear Robert coming, and it sounds like there is someone with him. Before I can say anything else to Danny, Robert grabs me by the arm and whips me back outside of the stall while Marcus goes in, drops to the floor in front of Danny.

Robert points over to the urinals. “Stand over there,” he nearly yells in an authoritative voice that almost makes me stand at attention. “Do not move!”

“Yes, sir,” I say as I stumble backwards to where I was ordered to stand.

“I need a stretcher in the shower room now!” Marcus yells into his radio as Robert joins him in the small space as both men try to stop the blood.

It seems like only seconds later that the stretcher gets pushed in by four medical personnel, but it was probably longer. I don’t know what’s wrong, but my head feels funny. My heart is pounding, and there’s a rushing in my ears like I’ve been running for a couple of miles, but not quite.

I hear the men talking, but I don’t understand what they’re saying. I watch as they load Danny onto the stretcher. He’s completely passed out, head lolling. There’s blood everywhere.

All six men leave with Danny, the stretcher being rolled by four of them. I look over at the blood on the floor. I can’t help it, but I just stare at it. It’s not like I’ve never seen blood before. That’s not something new. What’s new is how I’m feeling. I don’t like it, but I don’t know how to stop it.

Before I realize that my eyes are closed, someone touches my shoulder gently. My eyes fly open as I gasp.

“It’s okay, Dean,” Robert says softly.

“Is he okay?” I whisper as if saying it is too loud. Some part of my brain recognizes the fact that Robert’s scrubs have no blood on them.

“Dan’s got him now. They’ll take good care of him,” Robert assures me. He reaches up, wipes some dampness off of my left cheek. “Let’s take care of you now.”

Oh, fuck, I was crying. I reach up to wipe at my face, but Robert grabs a hold of my left hand with his own gloved hand. It’s then that I look at my hand and arm to see blood covering my skin. My eyes widen.

“It’s okay,” Robert repeats as he pulls me by the arm toward the showers. We stand in front of one of the faucets, and he starts to pull my shirt off. “Let’s get these off first.”

I numbly let him undress me, ogling the amount of blood on my clothes the entire time. I can’t believe how much there is. It’s making my stomach clench.

Robert turns the water on, grabs a bar of soap, hands it to me. “Can you wash yourself?” he asks me.

“Huh?” I ask stupidly. I really don’t know what my problem is, but his voice even sounds funny. I don’t like this. I feel so weird.

Robert points at the soap in my hands. “Wash the blood off of your hands and arms first,” he instructs me.

Oh, that’s what he wanted. I start to do as he told me. I’m still a bit amazed at the amount of blood on my hands, but I’m able to wash it off without any help.

“Can you wash the rest of you, too?” Robert asks, and I’m thankful that he’s not making me feel as stupid as I know I’ll feel later.

“Y-yeah,” I say, somewhat hesitant, as if I’m not sure I can do what he’s telling me to do.

I think I’m moving slowly, but I not only manage to soap myself up, but I step under the spray and get the soap off of me, too. Robert turns the water off with ungloved hands, starts toweling me dry. I don’t know when he took off the gloves.

It’s then that I notice that I’m shaking, and it’s not because I’m cold. He pulls me over to the cubbyholes, starts to dress me.

“Let’s go to your room now,” Robert says as he starts pulling me by my upper arm out into the hallway. My legs don’t feel right. “Take off your slippers, and get into bed.”

I do as he tells me. It’s much easier when it’s an order. I climb into bed, lie down on my back so I can look up at Robert. 

Robert sits down on the edge of my bed. “Try to breathe a little deeper for me. Let me feel your stomach move,” he says as he puts his hand on my stomach.

I try to obey him. I really do, but it appears that my body has a different idea of what it wants to do.

“Slow it down a little bit,” Robert says in a soothing voice, hand still on my upper abdomen.

Oh, fuck! Now my bottom lip is trembling. My breathing speeds up even more. I don’t want to cry. I hate this!

Robert shushes me softly. “It’s okay to feel this way, Dean. Don’t fight your body so hard,” he tells me.

I open my mouth to tell him just how much I don’t want to do this, but the only thing that comes out is a whimper. Why am I reacting like this? Not only have I been around shit like this all my fucking life, I was trained how to avoid feeling and reacting like I am.

“I know you’re Mr. Tough Guy, but you’re feeling some things you’ve never felt before,” Robert explains as I feel warm tears running into my hair. The thumb of his right hand rubs my belly a bit. “It’s okay to be vulnerable every once in a while,” he says with a soft smile.

“Don’t want to,” I say through clenched teeth as a few more tears leak from the corners of my eyes.

“Nobody’s going to see but me. Nobody’s going to laugh at you or make fun of you,” Robert tells me as my breathing gets even faster, my jaw so tight it feels like it might break. “You’re going to make yourself pass out,” Robert warns me.

“It hurts!” I tell him desperately. Everything hurts. My chest is burning, my stomach is clenching, my eyes are prickling, my jaw is breaking, and I can’t seem to keep my feet and legs still. I grab onto Robert’s shirt with my right hand, fisting it at his chest.

“It only hurts because you’re fighting it,” Robert says like it’s the easiest thing in the world to just let go.

I let out a growl. “I don’t even fucking like the jerk!” I say quite loudly.

“It doesn’t matter, though, does it?” he asks gently, and I growl at him. “It’s hard to watch somebody slipping away when you know that what they’re going through hurts them so badly that the only way they can cope is to end their life,” Robert says with a sad look on his face, a look of experience.

“I hate this!” I yell, then let out a big sob.

Once that’s out, it seems I just can’t stop myself. I leave my right hand fisted in Robert’s shirt, but bring my left arm up to lay across my eyes. Somehow it makes it easier, and I start sobbing.

“I d-don’t want to d-do this,” I let out in between heaving sobs. “I d-don’t do this!”

Robert’s hand never stops moving on my stomach, just a gentle touch that lets me know he’s there. That and the warmth I’m getting from his right hip next to mine. “You’re on medications that mess with your hormones and your brain chemistry. I wasn’t lying before when I said you were feeling things you’ve never felt before. I know it’s scary, and I know you don’t like it, but try to keep calm, talk to me about it,” Robert reassures me.

My whole body feels like it’s tearing apart. “Make it stop!” I yell at Robert, still hiding under my arm, still sobbing like a baby.

“You’re doing good, Dean. I know it’s hard, but you’re doing good,” he says, then just lets me cry.

After a while, I get to the point where I’m just making horribly embarrassing snorting noises and hiccups. I hear a plastic bag open, then Robert pulls my left arm away from my face.

“Close your eyes,” he tells me, then uses a wet wipe to catch all the tears and snot.

“You’re always s-so prepared,” I grumble with a bit of a smile, eyes feeling raw.

“What would you have done with all that snot on your face otherwise?” Robert says with a grin.

“That’s what my shirt is for,” I say, smile growing.

Robert chuckles. “My mistake,” he says.

We stay in silence for a bit, my hiccupping and snorting backing off little by little. “I’m sorry,” I say as I look up at Robert.

“I told you last time not to apologize,” Robert says with a raised eyebrow.

“Yeah, but this time I kind of outdid myself,” I say with a grimace. It’s then that I realize I still have his shirt in my hand. I let go as if burned by it. “Sorry,” I say again.

Robert shakes his head. “You’ve been here a little over a week, and already you’ve had more happen to you than people who have been here for years, and yet you’ve made it this far. You’re hanging on. You’re still willing to talk to me,” Robert compliments me.

I look down at Robert’s rumpled shirt. I don’t feel like I’m hanging on. I certainly don’t feel like I can take any more. I concentrate on the wrinkles until I feel Robert’s fingers tapping my stomach.

“Hey,” he says.

I slowly look back up at him. “Yeah?” I whisper.

“I know you don’t belong here, but hang on just a little while longer,” Robert says softly.

My eyes widen. My stomach clenches yet again as realization hits me. He knows. I don’t know how, but the man knows. I open my mouth to ask all the questions that are going through my head, but he shakes his head no, gives me a look that clearly says “let it go” even though I’ve never seen this look on his face before.

“Why don’t you take a nap? I’ll wake you up in time to get some lunch,” Robert says as he gives my stomach one last rub, stands up.

“Yes, sir,” I say, still dazed, wanting to ask questions.

Robert chuckles at my reaction, leaves me alone. I can’t help it. I turn over and start imagining all the possibilities. By the time I fall asleep, I have a plan of Sam and Bobby dressed as orderlies together with Robert getting me out of here under the cover of night. I remember that Robert is on day shift just before I fall asleep, totally ruining my little plan.

By the time Robert gets me for lunch, there’s only a half hour left to eat. I don’t see Joey, but figure he got his lunch as soon as the cafeteria opened. I try not to worry about him, but with a new medication on board, there’s no telling what the kid is going through right now. I decide to go see him after I have my appointment with Richards.

Nobody sits with me. Nobody talks to me. Nobody even looks at me. It feels good in a way, but then another part of me wants company. I don’t know whether it’s because I miss Sam or what, but I don’t feel as much like being alone as I used to. I guess I never really was alone that much to begin with. Getting alone time when you live out of a motel room is hard to do. Sam talks to me constantly, even if it’s just about what we’re doing the next day. I think I’m going into withdrawal.

I walk out of the cafeteria to see Joey sitting on the far end of the couch. He’s looking out the big windows that nearly take up the entire length of the wall. When I get back from my appointment with Richards, he’s still in the same position. I let out a sigh.

I flop down on the couch next to the kid, sprawling out like I normally do, whack his leg with my left hand. “Tell me what’s so interesting out there,” I say with a smile as I close my eyes, lay my head on the back of the couch. 

“It’s raining,” he mumbles, his chin resting on his left hand.

I have no idea if this is a loaded question or not, but decide to go for it. “You like the rain?” I ask, then inwardly cringe as I await the blowout.

“Yeah, I like the sound it makes hitting the leaves on the trees, the smell of it on cement, all those cliché things,” he comments, sounding pretty sad about it.

We can’t hear or smell the rain in here. It sucks. “I bet you were one of those kids who would run out into the rain to feel it on their tongue without caring about getting your clothes wet,” I say with a grin, not lifting my head up to see his reaction.

A soft chuckle comes out of the boy. “How’d you know?” he asks, sounding like he almost has a smile on his face now.

I shrug my shoulders, then turn to look at him. Those beautiful blue eyes are staring down at me like I can save him, and it hurts, mostly because I know that I can’t. “I think it’s your horrendously scary taste in music,” I say with a big smile.

He elbows me hard enough in the left side that I grunt. “It’s metal, just a little bit heavier,” he says in a teasing tone. “At least that’s what I tell the guys around here,” he whispers.

“Smart guy, you are,” I say with a chuckle. I really do like this kid. Knowing my luck, he’ll probably end up possessed or something.

We sit in silence, probably both wishing we could hear the rain for at least a little while. I’m glad that we know each other well enough to be able to have comfortable silences.

“You have lunch?” I ask, suddenly wondering.

I see him shake his head no. Then he turns to me with a panic stricken look on his face. “Don’t tell Robert?” It comes out as a question.

I stare into those pleading eyes for a moment before answering. “This time,” I say.

The kid relaxes again. “Robert and I have this deal that I don’t have to eat breakfast, but I have to eat lunch and dinner every day, but I just didn’t feel like eating,” he says sadly as he turns to look out at the rain again.

“Does your stomach hurt?” I ask.

“No,” he says, doesn’t give me any more.

I’m so bad at this. I have no idea what to say. I don’t want to scare the boy or upset him, make him mad at me, but I want to help. I’ve never been good at this kind of thing, and it just makes me miss Sam even more because we fit together so well, him being better at talking with people.

“They gave me a new med,” Joey finally says. “I think they want me to stop saying yes to everybody that wants something from me, but then they put me on a pill that makes me even more passive,” he grumbles.

So it was because of Jerry that his medications were changed. Ouch. “Makes you sleep more, too, doesn’t it?” I ask, probably not helping. Joey just nods, keeps looking out the window. I feel like I’m making some excellent progress, getting absolutely nowhere.

“You had your appointment with Richards today, right?” he asks, turning back to look down at me. I nod. “He change anything on you?”

“No, he said he wanted to see how the new sleeping pill worked for a while before he did any more changes. It sounds like he wants to change things, but he’s just not quite ready yet,” I say with a frown.

“Yeah, sometimes he seems a little pill happy,” Joey says with a frown of his own.

After a little while longer of comfortable silence, I get an idea. “Hey,” I say as I turn to him again.

“Yeah?” he asks, turning to look at me.

“I feel like playing cards. Want to?” I ask, giving him a hopeful look.

Joey chuckles, stands up, and gives me a hand up. I let Joey have the seat that faces the windows, and I sit facing the nurse’s station. Robert looks up, gives me a smile.

Joey teaches me a card game that we play for a while, him laughing every time I fuck up or get frustrated because I’m not getting it.

“Okay, now you’re doing it on purpose,” Joey accuses.

I shrug. “I win that way,” I say with a grin.

Joey laughs so hard he drops his head down on the table. When he gets his breath back, he sits up and tries to give me a stern look, which fails miserably. “Play right!” he tells me.

I chuckle. “Yes, sir,” I tell him with a smile. I win the next hand fair and square.

“So where’s your brother?” he asks as he plays a card.

“I don’t know,” I tell him with a wince.

“No calling, writing, visiting?” he asks me.

“We kind of did some stuff before I got put in here,” I start awkwardly.

“You know you don’t have to tell me why you’re in here, don’t you?” he asks with a lopsided grin.

“Well, suffice it to say he’s hiding out,” I say, thankful that he didn’t push it.

“I’m sorry you don’t get to see him. I know you were really close,” Joey says sadly.

I shrug. “I’ll see him again,” I say with confidence.

Joey smiles at that. “Speaking of which, what’s going to be the first thing you eat when you get out of here?” he asks me as he plays a card.

I chuckle. “The biggest, juiciest, most heart attack-inducing burger I can find,” I say with a grin, nearly drooling at just the thought.

“I thought you might be that type. I’m not big on the artery clogging, but I would like a huge Sunday with all the toppings I can fit in the bowl,” Joey says with a big smile.

“Awesome,” I reply. “I think I’ll have that for dessert,” I say with a grin.

“Is your brother into grease traps, too?” he asks.

I shake my head. “That’s the strange part. He complains about the grease constantly, but eats whatever I put in front of him. I don’t know what the deal is,” I grumble.

Joey shrugs. “Maybe he just feels the need to make a token protest on principle,” he suggests.

“I guess so,” I say as I shuffle the cards. I can’t believe I’m playing cards. I can’t believe I’m actually enjoying it. Sam would definitely choke me if he saw me doing this considering all the times he’s asked me.

Robert walks up to the table. “Sorry to bust up your little party, boys, but you’ve got group,” he says, looking upset to have disturbed us.

“You’re not going to even let us skip out on one day of that, are you?” I ask with a scowl.

“Nope, now get going so you’re not late,” he says as he fluffs Joey’s hair, then leaves.

“We’d better get going,” I grumble as I stand up, and we walk to group in silence.

“Hey, guys,” Jim says with a smile on his face.

I cringe at seeing Jim, remembering not only our last encounter, but what he expects of me tomorrow. I still don’t know what I’m going to do. I must look totally shocked, but he just smiles before looking up at Joey.

“Hey, Jim,” Joey says as he slips between two chairs.

“Okay, guys. Now that everybody’s here, I’d like to start us off today with the subject of self-esteem,” he says with a smile, ignores the moans from two or three of the men. “I want you to describe the last time you did something for yourself. We’ve got enough time, so I’m going to want an answer from each of you,” Jim warns us.

Is he serious? I start to get a little nervous. The last time I did something for myself? No, really, is he serious? I’ve got to think of something. And he’s not going to let me sleep through this one. He said so.

I come out of my own head long enough to listen to the answer of the guy directly in front of me. “I took a shit this morning,” he says with a chuckle.

The whole group, excluding Jim and I, laugh at him. Jim doesn’t look mad--he’s smiling, but I don’t think he appreciated the comment.

“Okay, okay, now tell me the last thing you really did for yourself,” Jim says.

“Sorry, doc,” the guy says, only half apologetic. Jim smiles at him. “Okay, yesterday I took an extra long shower with the water really hot like I used to before I came here,” the man says.

“That’s good,” Jim says, sounding much more appreciative of this answer. The man smiles at the praise.

I zone out again for the next few men. I still haven’t thought of anything. There’s nothing to do around here for yourself. This is a stupid question. I hate group. This serves no purpose. Seriously.

“I built my daughter a tree house,” the man to my left says. “I know that doesn’t sound like something for myself, but it sure felt like it when I saw the look on her face when it was done,” the man says, pride evident in his tone of voice.

“Just because we’re doing something for another person, it doesn’t mean that we’re not getting something out of it as well,” Jim comments. Then everyone looks at me.

I cringe and let out a nervous chuckle. It really shouldn’t be this hard. The other men have all answered. It’s just Joey and I left now. “I let myself relax and have a good time with a friend,” I finally answer.

Jim gives me an encouraging smile. “That’s excellent,” he says.

I try hard not to blush, but I’ve got Jim complimenting me, and I can see Joey beaming at me out of the corner of my eye. I chuckle and look down at my hands, glad when everyone turns to Joey.

“I sat on the couch and watched the rain,” Joey says.

“I know they’re your favorite kind of days, and we don’t get many of them around here, so it’s great that you were able to enjoy it,” Jim says. “All right, then. That’s it for today. See you all tomorrow,” he says as he stands up. He heads toward the wall to my right with the table against it, picks up his files, heads out the door with them in hand.

All the other patients make their way out the door, Joey and I being the last. “Meet you in the cafeteria at five?” I ask as we walk down the hallway.

“Checking up on me?” Joey asks with a grin.

“You don’t want to have dinner with me?” I ask with a pout.

Joey chuckles at that. “Okay, I’ll see you at five,” he says over his shoulder as he walks into his room.

Later that night I wake to a wicked nightmare. It must have been bad to get me to wake up despite the sleeping pill. I know I’m acting like an idiot, but I just have to get out of bed. I start pacing the room without my slippers on. The cool of the floor feels good on my overheated, sweaty skin.

Every time I walk toward the door, I look out the window for the orderly. I haven’t seen him yet, so I think I’ll be okay.

I shake my hands and arms out. They still feel funny. I feel fidgety. I still feel horrible. I hate this. And what if Richards finds out I had this nightmare on the sleeping pill? I can’t go back on that tranquilizer. 

The floor feels so cool, I want to lie down naked on it. I sit down against the far wall so that I have a good view of the door. I bring my knees up to my chest, rest my forearms on my knees. I close my eyes, lay my head against the wall. I can feel the coolness seeping into me, and it feels wonderful.

“Dean,” Greg says as he shakes my arm.

My eyes fly open, widen. “Oh, shit! Oh, shit!” I say as I start to breathe heavily, try to back away from him. I’m obviously not going anywhere, though. It’s then that I realize the orderly is standing in the middle of the room, waiting to help Greg.

“Did you have another nightmare?” Greg asks me.

My mouth opens to say yes, but then I remember the tranquilizer. My mouth snaps shut, and a whimper comes out of me. I shake my head no jerkily.

“It’s not a good idea to lie to me, Dean,” Greg says, voice deep. He doesn’t sound happy.

I moan. “Don’t tell Richards,” I whisper as if somebody else is going to hear.

Greg shakes his head no. “I’m not going to tell Richards unless it becomes a regular problem,” he tells me.

“Okay, then yeah,” I say, fairly confident this won’t have to be a regular problem. Greg stands up, holds a hand out to me, pulls me up. I watch as he pulls a syringe out of his pocket. “No!” I whine as I back up to the bed.

“C’mon, Dean,” Greg says as he gets closer. “Stay calm and turn around.”

“No, I don’t need it! I’ll get back into bed!” I say as I put my hands up in front of me, the edge of the bed touching the backs of my legs. “Greg, please!”

“Last time I’m going to say it,” Greg warns. “Turn around,” he says, enunciating each word.

“Greg I--” Greg cuts me off by waving the orderly over. “No! No shot!” I yell as the orderly grabs at me, gets me turned around. He quickly has me pinned to the bed. “No! Stop!” I yell into the bedding, my voice getting muffled. I let out a yelp as Greg sticks me with the needle. I’ll never get used to that.

“You need to talk to us, Dean. Tell us if you’re having trouble. Don’t lie to us. We can’t help you if you lie to us,” Greg says as he and the orderly get me into bed, get the railing up.

 

**TUESDAY – WEEK 2**

I squint up at Robert as he lowers my railing. “Not yet,” I mumble, turn over, pull the pillow over my head.

“Oh, it’s not that bad,” Robert says with what sounds like a smile on his lips. The pillow is taken from me, and I give an appropriate gesture. I hear Robert laugh. “C’mon, I’ve got something to tell you,” he says, pulling at my arm.

“That’s never a good thing,” I groan as I wrap my arms around my head, curl up into a ball, and otherwise generally act like a two-year-old.

“I’m not leaving until you sit up and listen to me,” Robert threatens in his non-threatening tone.

I let out a growl. “Fine,” I say as I sit up against the wall, my feet dangling off the side of the bed that Robert is on.

“We got the tests back, and Danny’s clean,” he says with a smile.

“Clean?” I ask, not quite connecting the dots.

“Well, we won’t get the official HIV test back for two weeks, but the rapid test was negative, and everything else came back negative,” Robert tells me.

“Oh,” I say, surprised look on my face. “I hadn’t even really thought about it,” I tell him, having a hard time believing that it hadn’t even crossed my mind. I was covered in the guy’s blood, and it hadn’t crossed my mind.

Robert shrugs. “You had other things on your mind,” he says.

“How is he?” I ask with a wince.

“Physically he’s doing great for what happened. If all goes well, he should be out in a week,” Robert says.

“Mentally?” I ask.

“That’s not going so well. He’s refusing to eat, and he hasn’t said a word since he woke up. He won’t look anybody in the eye, either,” Robert explains.

“Oh,” I say, looking down at my hands.

“He’s in a good place. He’s somewhere a lot of people are looking out for him, even if he doesn’t like them all that much,” Robert says as he grabs my knee and shakes it a bit.

“I guess so,” I say.

“Hey, Joey isn’t up yet. Would you mind getting him for me?” Robert asks.

“Sure,” I say, a bit of a smile on my face. Just the thought of the kid is making me smile now, it appears.

“Maybe you can take him to breakfast, convince him to eat with you,” Robert suggests.

I cringe, not wanting to tell Robert that the boy isn’t in the mood to eat lately. “Yes, sir,” I say with a smile as I slide off the bed.

Robert leaves, so I figure I’ve gotten away with it for the time being. I’ve just got to convince Joey to start eating. I don’t want to get in trouble with Robert.

I walk into Joey’s room, glance over at the desk. There are about five or six books strewn about on it, a small stack of paper underneath them. I don’t know what he needs with that many books.

“Hey, dude,” I say as I walk up to Joey’s bed.

Joey’s eyes blink open, and he looks up at me, smiles. “The big tough guy who’s scared of shots has come to awaken me this morning,” Joey teases as he stretches.

“Oh, aren’t we funny today,” I growl with fake annoyance.

“You just don’t look like the type to scream like a girl over shots, you know?” Joey comments as he sits up in bed.

“First of all, I do not scream like a girl,” I say as I whack Joey in the arm.

“Sure sounded like a girl, Deanna,” Joey says with a lopsided grin.

I chuckle at that. “Second, it’s not only the pain, which I admit is not as bad as I make it out to be, but it’s also the fact that they’re giving me drugs. I don’t like the shit they put in me, and then they want to put more in on top of it. I don’t like it. Thus the large amount of noise that wakes up and amuses everyone in the middle of the night,” I explain.

“I doubt it amuses everyone,” Joey says as he slides out of bed, heads for his slippers. We leave his room. “In fact, I’m probably the only one lying in bed laughing their ass off over it,” he says as he knocks into me while we’re walking down the hallway.

I snort. “I can feel the love,” I say with a grin.

“Good morning, boys,” Robert says as he hands each of us a pill cup.

“Hey,” we say together, and Robert waves as we leave the nurse’s station.

I grab two trays from the cart, head over to the table Joey is already sitting at. I put a tray down in front of him, then sit in front of my own.

“I take it this is your polite way of saying that I’d better eat something, huh?” Joey asks with a frown.

“I know you don’t feel like it, but I really don’t want to lie to Robert, and I really don’t want you to get a fucking tube shoved up your nose,” I say quietly.

“It was bad?” Joey asks with a wince.

“It’s horrible!” I say with a shiver. “I wouldn’t wish it on anybody, and I never want to go through it myself ever again,” I tell him.

Joey picks up a sausage link, nibbles on the end. “What’s it feel like?” he asks.

“Your nose burns, your eyes water, and then you feel like you’re choking to death. And it doesn’t all stop when the tube comes out, either,” I complain as I mash up my eggs.

Joey’s eyes widen at my description. “I didn’t think it would be that bad,” he says, then finishes the link quickly.

“I’d rather you didn’t have to find out first hand,” I say as I stab a piece of fruit.

“Yeah, I guess not,” Joey says, obviously realizing for the first time just how bad it could be. We sit in silence for a while as we eat before Joey gets a smile on his face again. “So what do you think about life in outer space?” he asks.

I chuckle at that, glad that the kid comes up with this stuff. “Well, to tell you the truth, I’ve always had a hard enough time dealing with the shit that goes on down here to be worried about the shit that could happen out there,” I tell him.

Joey nods, shoves some egg into his mouth. “I like to believe that there’s something out there more important than us. I can’t imagine that we’re the only things in such a huge amount of space. So I don’t know what there is, but I’d like to think there is something,” he tells me.

“That sounds cool,” I say with a nod.

“If there were aliens, what do you think they would be like?” he asks me.

“I would think they would be smarter than us if they find a way to get to us before we find a way to get to them,” I say with a mouthful of watermelon.

“Well, I hope they’re either a lot smarter than us or a lot dumber than us,” Joey comments.

I get a puzzled look on my face. “Why do you say that?”

“If they’re a lot smarter, they won’t want to kill us. If they’re a lot dumber, they won’t know how to kill us,” Joey says with a grin.

I chuckle. “Sounds good to me,” I agree.

We finish our meals, put the trays on the cart, and I try to hide a smile as I see that Joey ate almost all of his breakfast. We flop down on the couch facing each other, Joey toward the nurse’s station.

“So I’m betting you were the type of kid that got into tons of fights when you were in school. Am I right?” Joey asks.

I smile at that, think of a few of the fights I got into. “I’ve always been pretty athletic, and Dad taught me how to fight when I was pretty young, so yeah, I got into quite a few fights,” I admit.

“Ever get into one over Sam?” he asks.

I wince. “The worst one I ever got into was over Sam,” I tell him.

“What happened?” he asks me, the interest plain to see on his face.

“We moved around a lot when we were kids. I was fifteen, Sam eleven, and we had just moved into this dinky little apartment in the bad part of town. We went to school as not only the new kids, but the poor kids as well. Sam was in hand-me-downs. I was in clothes that didn’t quite fit right anymore,” I start.

“Not in the popular group, then,” Joey comments.

“No. It was a small town, only one school, cliques, and all that. I came around the corner the first day of school just in time to see Sam getting pushed to the ground by a boy that was my age,” I say, still getting a little upset even all these years later.

“What a jerk!” he says, looking ticked off about it.

“Before I could do anything, the kid kicks Sam in the stomach hard enough that my brother rolled, had the air knocked out of him. Now my brother was taught to fight, too, but he was down with the kick, and I was already seeing red. So I went after the guy, beat him up pretty badly,” I say with a wince.

“Was he okay? The jerk?” he asks me.

“I didn’t stop until some teachers pulled me off of him. By then he didn’t get up. He just lay on the ground crying,” I say guiltily.

“What did the school do?” Joey asks, eyes wide.

“I almost got expelled, but they decided to knock it down to an extended suspension. I kind of felt bad for my dad, because he wasn’t sure whether to congratulate me or punish me,” I say with a chuckle.

“What did he decide on?”

“First he punished me, and then he hugged me, told me he probably would have done the same thing, and he was glad that I was looking out for Sam, but asked that maybe I didn’t go quite so far next time,” I say with a smile. Dad was awesome.

“That was cool of him. My mom wouldn’t have taken it that well,” Joey says with a frown. “But I never got into fights.”

I look down at my hands for a moment. “I’ve never told anybody this, but at the moment, I wanted to kill the kid,” I say with a wince as I look up at Joey.

“I’m sure you’re not the first to feel that way over the mistreatment of a baby brother,” Joey says with a snort.

I smile at that, relieved that he said it, relieved that I said it. “I suppose not,” I say.

“So I’m guessing you didn’t have too many friends growing up,” Joey says.

I shake my head. “We moved too much to really get close to anybody. It made the three of us a lot closer, especially my brother and I.”

We fall into silence again, and my eyes travel over to the shelving unit with the games, cards, and other somewhat entertaining things on them.

“Want to try a puzzle?” I ask as I start to stand up.

“Okay,” Joey says easily.

We spent the rest of the morning putting together a puzzle with two missing pieces, but it still looked like a bunch of puppies in a basket. Someone probably thought it was cute.

“Dean,” Robert calls from over at the nurse’s station.

“Yeah?” I yell back.

“Jim,” Robert simply says.

My stomach clenches. It’s eleven o’clock. It’s time to see Jim. “I’ve got to go,” I grumble at Joey.

“I’ll just be hanging around out here when you get done if you want to have lunch together,” Joey offers.

I smile at him, glad that he’s got his appetite back. “Okay,” I say, then take off in the direction of Jim’s office.

Is it bad that I still haven’t decided what I’m going to tell this guy? I don’t want to think about any of this. I shouldn’t be made to do this. I’m a sick individual. I should be allowed to rest, relax, get lots of sleep.

I stand in front of Jim’s door, not wanting to knock. Even though it’s not much, I could still lose quite a bit if this goes down badly. Jim will certainly never look at me the same way again.

Richards would have a field day with this. He’d have me in the IV room around the clock, never mind thinking of getting out.

The door opens, and I let out a gasp. “What the fuck, are you psychic or something?” I growl angrily. I don’t normally get startled so easily, so I’m a bit ticked.

Jim just smiles. “I saw your shadow under the door, figured you needed a little encouragement to come in today,” he says with a shrug as he steps aside.

I walk in, go straight to the couch I always sit in. I feel shaky, jittery. I feel myself breathing a little heavier than normal.

“I want to start off by apologizing,” Jim says as he sits down on the couch across from me.

“Huh?” I ask intelligently, puzzled look on my face.

“I promised I would make this a place where you felt comfortable to talk to me, and I pushed last time. I thought you were about to tell me something that was very deep and important to you, and so I pushed, and I’m sorry,” Jim says, looking truly apologetic.

“You’re serious?” I ask.

“I’m not perfect, and I certainly will admit when I’m wrong,” Jim says.

I’m kind of blown away by this. I was not expecting it at all. I was expecting him to start right in on me again, try to get me to talk.

“So please tell me if you feel like I’m pushing anything, because this is supposed to be for you, not me,” Jim tells me.

I nod. “Okay,” I say. This sounds cool. I never thought a shrink would apologize to me. This is cool.

“My offer still stands that I made to you out in the hall, but we can talk about whatever you feel like talking about,” Jim says.

I’m so scared. I just don’t know about this. If I could look into the future, I would. I look down at my hands, try to run through all the reasons this is a bad idea yet again.

“It’s okay if you don’t trust me, Dean,” Jim says after my prolonged silence.

I look up at him, wince. “I still am worried about all the things I told you I was worried about the other day. I just can’t,” I tell him with a shrug of my shoulders.

“It’s okay,” Jim says with a nod. “Trust has to be earned, and I certainly did a bang-up job of that last time you were here, huh?” he asks.

I let out a nervous chuckle. “Well, you were right,” I start.

“About what?” he asks as he cocks his head to the side.

“I was about to tell you everything,” I say as I look back down at my hands. “I was so upset that you said... I was so upset that I almost just told you enough to get me stuck in the little padded room for the rest of my life.”

“The way we deal with mental illness has changed so much in even just the last thirty years. Things that would have gotten people locked in cellars are now getting people much needed therapy,” Jim explains.

I nod, still looking at my hands. “I keep telling myself that,” I say with another nervous chuckle. “But I can’t come up with one good reason to tell you everything,” I say as I look up at him.

Jim gives me a soft smile. “I can’t tell you what to do, but whatever you’re hiding, it’s the reason you’re here. It’s the reason for how you act and react. It’s the reason why you have nightmares. It’s the reason why you’re on medications. It’s the reason why you can’t see your brother. And I have a feeling it’s why your father is no longer with you,” he says carefully.

My eyes widen at that, but I quickly calm myself down, look back down at my hands. I don’t want him to see how much this is affecting me. I certainly didn’t want him to see that last part was true.

“The longer you keep all this hidden and a secret, the more it eats at you, hurts you, makes you miserable, keeps others away from you,” Jim explains. “I don’t wish for you to go through life broken and alone. And I don’t think that’s what you want, is it?”

I shake my head no. Why is he making all of this sound so logical? This is totally fucking me up. I had all these reasons to say no, and he’s giving me way too many to say yes.

“Let’s get something out of the way straight off the bat,” Jim says, and I look up at him. “The murders. Were they yours?” he asks, sounding nonchalant about it.

I shake my head no again. “No, they’re not mine. I never--”

“Then that’s out of the way,” Jim cuts me off. “We can move on and talk about what did happen, things that are important to you.”

“How do you know it wasn’t the murders that I didn’t want to tell you everything about?” I ask, puzzled.

“Well, for one thing, everybody knows about those, and this is something that you think nobody knows,” Jim says.

“Oh, duh,” I say with a roll of my eyes. I should’ve figured that one out myself.

“And second, plain old murders won’t get you put in a padded room for the rest of your life, will they?”

“Okay,” I say, giving him a little smile.

“So it’s your choice, Dean,” Jim says with a shrug.

I feel myself start to shake harder, my palms get sweaty. I rub my hands on my pants, but it doesn’t help. I can’t believe I’m going to do this.

I look at the clock on my way out of Jim’s office. I had been in there for two and a half hours. Jim let me talk to him through his lunch hour and then some.

I walk down the hallway feeling ridiculously strange. I’m lightheaded, my chest feels sore, my whole body is tingling, and my stomach is growling, so I know I missed lunch. I walk by the nurse’s station to see Joey sitting on the couch reading. He looks up at me.

“Hey, man, you missed lunch,” he says with a smile.

I walk over and flop down onto the couch, use the armrest as a headrest. “My brain hurts,” I moan as I put my right arm over my eyes to block out the light from the big windows.

I hear him toss the book down on the coffee table in front of us. “You were in with Jim that whole time?” he asks, sounding amazed.

“Yeah,” I reply as I scratch my stomach.

“He started doing that weird thing again where he makes you talk even though he’s not making you talk about something, didn’t he?” Joey nearly growls.

“No, it was okay. He gave some good reasons for talking to him, but he didn’t force anything,” I tell him.

“He’s not human, I tell you,” Joey says, a grin evident in his tone of voice.

I chuckle at that, then chuckle harder as I consider what I’ve just spent the last few hours talking about. My stomach growls again.

“You’re not, like, starving or anything, are you?” Joey asks, sounding concerned.

“Dude, my mind is too badly fucked right now to care about my stomach,” I tell him with a grin.

“So is it time for a subject change?” Joey asks me.

“Definitely,” I say, totally relieved.

“Tell me the first funny memory that pops into your head,” Joey requests.

I have no idea why this is the first thing that hits me, but it does. I let out a bark of laughter as it hits me. “Sam and I have always been big with pranks. When Sam was about twelve, and I was sixteen, so I was old enough to know better, I played a prank on him,” I start.

“Was your dad around the house?” Joey asks.

“Yeah, so it was even stupider for me to have done it. Anyway, I made hamburgers for dinner, but I dumped hot chili powder on Sam’s,” I tell him.

“You didn’t!” Joey says, then actually giggles.

“We’re sitting around the dinner table when Sam bites into his burger. I sit there looking as innocent as a sixteen-year-old can when Sam’s eyes get big, he spits out the burger, and he starts choking,” I say with a laugh.

“And your Dad was right there at the table?” he asks.

“Yeah, Dad was the one that stood up to help Sam. And just when I think Sam’s got it under control, he starts throwing up all over the table,” I say, chuckling even harder.

“Gross!” Joey says, then laughs.

“When Sam finally calmed down, my dad looked over at me, saw the panic-stricken expression on my face, and barked my name so loud I nearly pissed myself. I scrambled up out of my seat, slipped in some of the puke, and fell down right onto my ass on the linoleum floor,” I say, laughing hard enough to make it difficult to speak.

Joey’s laughing so hard that I take my arm away from my face to look at him. His face is pink, the blue in his eyes standing out even more because of it. He really looks happy.

“Oh, man, did I get in trouble for that one. And I had to clean up the mess while Dad was in the bathroom taking care of Sam and his poor throat,” I say, still smiling. “I got grounded for almost the entire summer. Dad wouldn’t even let me touch the keys to the car, and dating was just plain out of the question.”

Our laughter dies down, and Joey sighs. “I never got to play pranks on anybody,” he complains.

“Sam and I have gotten in so much trouble over the years for pranks, but we still prank each other even now. Just last month Sam put ketchup packets on my seat in a fast food restaurant,” I tell him, feeling an ache in my chest that has nothing to do with everything I told Jim.

“That is so cool!” Joey says with a grin. “What did you do to get him back?”

“Well, it was a simple one, so I used a simple one to retaliate. I spilled beer on the crotch of his pants, made it look like he pissed himself,” I tell him.

Joey just starts laughing all over again. “The worst I did was buy a box of those little plastic ants, and then I put them on the kitchen counter. Mom didn’t even give me a good reaction to them. She just threw them out,” Joey complains.

“That sucks, man,” I say, still grinning like an idiot.

We’re both quiet, lost in our own thoughts for a while when Joey turns to look at me again. “Don’t laugh at me, but I’ve got this book here. Do you want me to read to you until group?” he asks, looking quite unsure about himself.

“I’m not laughing, and yes, I’d like that,” I tell him with a smile.

Joey’s face lights up again, and he picks up his book, settles back into the couch again. He turns to the first page.

“You’re not going to be offended if I fall asleep while you’re reading, are you?” I ask with a wince.

Joey snorts. “With the amount of drugs we’re on, I might fall asleep reading before you fall asleep listening,” Joey says.

“Cool,” I say.

I rest my right arm over my eyes again, partially listen to the boy read. Jim actually surprised me. When I started off by saying that he wouldn’t believe me, he told me that he may not believe what I say, but he would believe that I believed it was true. I guess that’s as close as I’ll get to being believed by someone who’s never seen what I have.

The man never flinched, never looked surprised or scared. I started off telling him about the fire when I was four, ended with me here in the hospital. Of course I didn’t tell him every single case we’ve ever been on, but I gave him the gist of a few of them. I mostly told the story of my family, the yellow-eyed demon, what’s happened to us over the years.

He mostly kept his mouth shut, let me talk all I wanted. It felt kind of good to tell somebody all that shit. It felt even better telling someone who didn’t freak out over it. Now all I have to do is wait around, see if I get thrown in the padded room for telling him everything.

“Hey, guys, time for group,” I hear Robert say from above me.

Joey and I both groan. It looks like we did both fall asleep. The book is down on the floor, Joey’s head propped on his left arm.

“I’m up,” I say as I sit up, slide off the couch. “C’mon, kiddo,” I say as I hold a hand out to Joey.

“Coming,” Joey mumbles as he takes my hand.

We perk up a little on the way there. By the time we enter the room, I’m already nervous about how Jim is going to act around me now. Jim just gives each of us a little welcoming smile.

“Now that everybody’s here, I want to give you guys a bit of a challenge. I want you to think of a time when you’ve intentionally hurt someone. It can be physically, mentally, emotionally, etc. I don’t want to hear what you did. I want to hear what you learned from the experience,” Jim asks of us, then turns to Angel, the first one on his right.

“I learned that not everybody is who they say they are,” Angel says bitterly.

“Okay, good,” Jim says without emotion on his face. “That’s exactly what I was looking for, Angel.”

While the next two guys say what they’ve learned I work on what I’m going to say. The first thing that popped into my head was when I hit Sam.

“Dean?” Jim prods.

“I’ve learned that you shouldn’t let your anger get between you and your family,” I say with a small smile.

“Excellent,” he says, again with the poker face. “Joey?”

“I’ve learned that, no matter how much you think you hate another person, you still miss them when they’re gone,” Joey says as he looks at his hands.

“Thank you, Joey,” Jim says softly.

I hate having stronger emotions. The backs of my eyes are prickling a bit when I know normally they wouldn’t. I turn to give Joey a smile, and he smiles back. I feel like I should do something. I feel like I should hug him or something. I’m such a girl.

The rest of the answers kind of go over my head as I start to imagine what Joey went through with his mom. I wonder how upset he must have gotten. I wonder what he was thinking at the time, how awful it must have been to think that killing his mom was the only way out.

That just reminds me of Danny. I feel a chill go through me as I think of him in the hospital bed refusing to talk, to eat, to even make eye contact with other humans. He must be hurting so badly inside that he can barely breathe. I almost wish I knew what got him in here in the first place and what all he’s going through. I don’t know how I could help him, but I still want to.

“Okay, I’ll see you all back here tomorrow,” Jim says as he stands up.

Joey and I file out with the rest of the crew.

 

THURSDAY

 

I stretch, let out a loud groan, sit up, stretch some more. It’s great not being so drugged in the morning that somebody has to drag you out of bed. Speaking of which, I need to go check on Joey. I woke him up yesterday, too. He’s just not getting used to this new med as easily as he hoped.

“Hey, kid, wake up,” I say as I go into his room.

There’s a groan from the general area of the bed underneath a bunch of covers and a pillow. I look over at the books on his desk again.

“Why do you have so many books in here?” I ask him.

“I can never read just one at a time,” he mumbles as I walk over to the desk, start reading the names of the books to myself. I hear him sit up behind me. “Stop!”

It’s already too late. I see the disposable razor on the desk that was underneath one of the books. “Joey!” I whine as I pick it up, turn around, show it to him like he’s never seen it before.

He looks adorable. His hair is up in all different directions, his shirt is rumpled, his face has pillow creases. “I wasn’t going to do anything with it,” Joey says with a wince.

“So what’s it doing in your room?” I ask, still holding it up.

“I was just...,” he trails off, his face falling.

“You were just what?” I ask, trying to keep my voice down.

“Contemplating things... about stuff,” he says as he looks down at his hands twisting together.

“This is going back,” I say as I head toward the door.

I hear Joey let out a big sigh behind me, but I don’t let it stop me. I take off on my way to the shower room, catch a glimpse of Robert out of the corner of my eye. I inwardly groan, but try to walk as normally as possible so I don’t catch his attention.

“Dean,” Robert says in a warning tone as he gets closer to me.

“I’m just going to the shower room,” I say as I turn to look at him, the razor in my left palm, Robert on my right side.

“In a bit of a hurry?” he asks, eyebrow raised.

He obviously knows something is up. I’ve got to get out of this quickly. “Robert, please. Just let me go to the shower room, please,” I say, hoping that the begging will get to him.

“Dean?” I hear Joey say from his bedroom doorway. 

“Stay there, Joey,” Robert says. He then turns back to me, leans in, whispers to me. “My job is to look for odd behavior in my patients. When one begins behaving oddly, I start to ask questions. Do you have anything to tell me?”

I shake my head no as I look into his eyes. I can see instantly that he doesn’t believe me. Either my lying capabilities are greatly hindered by these drugs or Robert is extremely good at picking out lies from truth.

“You don’t want to tell me why you’re suddenly in a hurry to get to the shower room after visiting Joey? Why you’re holding your left hand away from me?”

Fuck, but I wish I was holding a condom. That would be awesome. “Please. Just let me go,” I whisper back.

“One,” he starts in a menacing tone.

My eyes widen. “Robert, no!” I say barely above a whisper. “I was just--”

“Two,” he interrupts.

I let out a whimper as I slowly bring my left hand up between us. “It’s mine,” I say dejectedly as I show him my palm.

Robert takes the razor as if expecting to find it, pockets it. He puts both his hands on my shoulders, turns us so that my head is obscuring Joey’s view of his face. “Just like last time, I know this wasn’t yours,” Robert says.

“But--”

Robert shakes his head. “Don’t lie to me,” he says with that raised eyebrow again.

I let out a sigh. “Robert, that kid doesn’t need a night naked and alone on a floor,” I grumble.

“You lie about this, and he might miss out on more help. It’s up to you, and it’s up to him when I question him,” Robert tells me.

“Don’t question him. It’s mine. Just--”

“You saw firsthand how much damage the little blades in these razors can do. Do you really want to see anything happen to Joey?” Robert asks me.

I wince at that. He’s right. It sucked that he had to use it like that, but he’s right, and I don’t want to see anything happen to Joey.

“Up against the wall, please,” Robert says as he points to the closest wall.

Now I’m a bit confused. “But I--”

Robert shakes his head no. “You got an automatic trip to suicide watch just by having it in your hand outside of the shower room. I’m sorry, but that’s just how it goes,” he informs me with a shrug of his shoulders.

I let out a growl, but then obediently go stand with my palms against the wall he indicated, spread my legs. I can hear the two whispering behind me, but can’t make out what they’re saying.

“What are they going to do to me?” I hear Joey say, sounding like he’s almost in tears.

“Come over here and stand the same way Dean is,” Robert says as I hear their footsteps getting closer. “What they’re going to do is put you in a little cell that has nothing in it you can hurt yourself with for twenty-four hours so they can watch you,” Robert explains softly to Joey. “They’re going to take you to a different level in the hospital, and then they’re going to take your scrubs.”

Joey suddenly spins back around to face Robert. “No!” he nearly screams. He’s instantly panting and shaking. “They can’t take my scrubs! Don’t let them take my scrubs! They can’t--”

Robert shushes Joey, puts a gentle hand on his right shoulder. “Nobody’s going to see you but the orderlies and Dean because he’ll be in the next cell,” Robert explains.

Joey starts to cry. “Please! No!” he says through his sobs, full out panic attack.

“Calm down, Joey,” Robert says as he starts rubbing the kid’s back. “What’s so bad about you getting naked if Dean’s going to be getting naked, too?” he asks gently.

Joey looks back and forth between Robert and me. His bottom lip trembles and he lets out a whimper. “I’m a c-cutter. I took the r-razor to cut. And I have s-scars on my l-legs, and they’re gross, and I d-don’t like a-anybody seeing them,” he manages to get out.

“I’m not going to make fun of you, Joey,” I say to him, still keeping position.

“I know you won’t, but--”

“What, you think I’m going to be all grossed out over it and not want to be your friend anymore?” I ask, making it sound like it’s a silly notion.

He doesn’t answer me other than to stand there, his lip trembling. With his hair still tousled, the sleepy look still not gone from his eyes, he looks totally miserable.

I shake my head. “It doesn’t matter to me, kid. I wish you wouldn’t hurt yourself, but I don’t care if you have battle scars. You’re going to see mine soon,” I say with a smile.

“You don’t cut,” Joey says with the beginnings of a grin.

“No, but I’ve been in some fights and other dangerous situations that have given me quite a few scars, so chill out, okay?” I ask.

Joey finally smiles at me. “Okay,” he says rather sheepishly.

Robert wipes the tears from Joey’s face with his thumbs. “Okay, go ahead and stand like Dean so I can search you,” Robert says with a smile of his own. “Do you have anything sharp on you that’s going to cut me?”

“No, but why are you searching me?” Joey asks as he puts his palms on the wall. Then he proceeds to yelp as Robert starts to search his crotch and ass. I try hard not to laugh.

“Stay where you are while I search Dean,” Robert says with a grin. I can tell he’s trying not to laugh as well. He gets done searching me, stands behind us both. “Okay, go ahead and turn your backs to the wall. Wait right there for Jason and Clark to come and get you. Don’t move,” he says with a stern look on his face, then steps into the shower room to use the intercom system. He comes back out to watch over us as we all wait for the orderlies.

Soon the men come, take us in separate elevators to the cells. As I walk by Clark and Joey, I hear the boy sniffling as he takes his scrubs off. I wish I could reassure him, hug him, do something. I hand Jason my scrubs, then go into my cell. They put me in the same cell I was in last time, and they’re putting Joey in the cell Danny was in.

I turn to see Joey step into the cell with his arms wrapped around himself. He looks so upset. He walks to the back wall of the cell, turns, and sits down with his back against it, his legs up by his chest, but not before I see the scars he was so worried about.

The kid has been here long enough that even the newest one is just a dusky line on his left leg. The rest are all simple silver lines that cross both of his thighs. None of them are jagged, and they are almost uniform in length. The kid never did these in anger or violently. These were methodical. I wish I knew more about this kind of thing. I don’t know how I could help him, but that doesn’t stop me from wanting to.

I take my spot on the floor with the tiny blanket under me just as Joey rests his forehead on his knees, wraps his arms around his legs. He didn’t even bother to put the blanket beneath him. I knew he was thin, but without the scrubs and in the harsh light, he looks almost sickly.

By the time they take us out for the first piss break, I’m nearly crying my ass hurts so badly. I move around a lot, but sitting on a thin blanket doesn’t do much. Joey just grins when Jason lets me use the stall instead of the urinal. I’ve told Joey I can only piss when I’m alone, and Jason knows from last time. For some reason Joey found it just about as funny as everybody else seems to find it.

When Greg comes in with our ten p.m. pills, I almost wish for the tranquilizer I was on the last time I was in here. At least then my ass didn’t hurt. Well, maybe it did, but I didn’t seem to notice it with all the drooling and unconsciousness.

The pill makes me tired, but it’s still difficult to find a comfortable spot on the floor. Joey passes out pretty quickly after he takes his own pill. I’m glad he’s not as uncomfortable as I am. Other than his panic attack over the clothes situation, he has been calm about this.

Not too long after I fall asleep, I wake up from a nightmare. These things are just plain pissing me off. I’ve never gotten them before, and I don’t know why I’m getting them in here. It’s sick. Drugs should fix this.

Remembering the camera focused on me, I stay lying down. This one wasn’t so bad. I’m not even sweating. My heart’s just beating a little fast. To pass the time and try to fall asleep, I categorize the Impala’s trunk, figure out what we would need to bust out of here with the maximum amount of casualties. Then I feel bad for thinking that way, but fall asleep too fast to come up with a different scenario.

 

FRIDAY

 

Joey wakes after me, smiles and waves at me. We eat breakfast in our cells, Joey actually finishing his again. We get released at ten a.m.

“I wasn’t going to kill myself,” Joey says when we’re eating lunch together later in the day.

I smile at him. “I know, kid,” I say with a mouthful of fruit.

“I just wanted you to know,” he says as he pokes at his food.

“I wasn’t going to kill myself, either,” I whisper loudly to him.

“Dork,” Joey calls me, then giggles.

“Hey, I just wanted you to know,” I say with a grin.

Joey’s grin disappears. “Thanks for what you were trying to do, and I’m sorry you got caught trying to do it,” he says to me.

“Anytime,” I say with a shrug of my shoulders.

Joey shakes his head no. “I mean it, Dean,” he says, gravely serious look on his face.

I look him in the eye to show I’m not joking around. “I do, too, Joey,” I tell him, then smile.

The kid’s smile lights up his face, and he starts to eat again. After a few more bites, he looks up at me. “Tell me another prank you pulled on your brother,” he requests.

I think for a moment as I chew on my food. “One I had to pay for myself was when I filled the bottoms of Sam’s shoes with peanut butter,” I say with a wince.

Joey laughs. “Why did you have to pay for it?”

“Well, peanut butter doesn’t really come out of shoes, and we really didn’t have much money, so Dad made me do work for the neighbors to pay for a new pair of shoes for Sam,” I explain.

“So what did Sam do to get you back?” Joey asks me, eyes wide.

I chuckle before answering. “Sam figured that I got enough punishment from Dad, so he decided to do something small. He hid my alarm clock in the middle of the night,” I tell him.

Joey gets a puzzled look on his face. “So you were late for school or something?”

“No, I was late for the next door neighbor’s chores,” I say.

“Ah, I see,” he says with a widening smile.

“Yeah, you think it’s funny now. Try waking up to my father yelling at you about losing out on money because you wouldn’t get out of bed in the morning,” I say with a wince. Dad could be scary when he wanted to be, that’s for sure.

Joey chuckles. “How did he find out Sam did it?” he asks.

“As I was trying to explain myself, I reached for my alarm clock. I think both my dad and I got what happened at the same time. Sam was hiding under the covers,” I say with a laugh.

“You slept in the same room?” Joey asks.

“Yeah, Dad couldn’t usually afford a big place, so most of the time we were roommates,” I say.

“I don’t think I would have liked that. I like my privacy,” Joey says with his nose scrunched up.

“It wasn’t that bad. In fact the few times that we did have separate bedrooms, Sam would come in either to sleep on the floor next to my bed or right in bed with me,” I tell him with a smile.

“You didn’t kick him out?” Joey asks with a chuckle.

“He’s always been prone to nightmares, having troubles with getting to sleep, stuff like that,” I explain. “He always slept better if we were in the same room.”

“Aw, how sweet,” Joey teases.

“Yeah, I’m a dork. You had it right earlier,” I say with a smile.

“Hey, guys,” Robert says as he walks up to our table.

“Hey,” we say as we look up at him.

“You’ve each got an appointment with Jim this afternoon because you missed yesterday’s appointments. Joey, your appointment is at one, and Dean, yours is at two,” Robert tells us. Joey and I both groan at the news. Robert just chuckles at us. “Done with your trays?” he asks as he points at them.

“Yeah,” both of us say, then thank Robert as he picks up the trays and walks away.

“Want me to read to you until we have to see this jerk?” Joey asks.

I smile. “Yep, that sounds great, actually,” I say as I stand up, let him go first out of cafeteria doors. We both flop down on the couch. “Jim knows you’re a cutter, right?” I suddenly ask, having no idea why that popped into my head.

Joey smiles at me. “Yes, and you can tell him about what I did if you want,” he offers.

“He’s probably going to ask both of us, so it doesn’t really matter because I’m second, anyway,” I say.

Joey sticks his tongue out at me. “I get to go first, and I get to tell him how evil you were for taking away my toy,” he says, then chuckles.

I smile at him. “I’ll get you another one if you want,” I offer, then lean back and enjoy the boy laughing, then reading his book.

Jim smiles at me from across the coffee table in his office. “You’re not in a padded room yet, are you?” Jim asks me

I give him a grin. “No, I’m not,” I answer.

“Nobody else knows unless you told them,” he says.

“And that’s not going to happen,” I say, grin even bigger.

Jim smiles, then opens my file, reads for a moment. He sighs. “I’d be a pretty shitty doctor if I didn’t ask what I’m about to ask, but I want you to know that you don’t have to answer if you don’t want to,” Jim says seriously.

My stomach clenches. “Okay,” I say uncertainly.

“You’ve been to suicide watch twice now since you’ve been here. I should have asked about it the first time it happened, but I went with my gut when it told me that I shouldn’t push. Now that you’ve been there a second time, I have to ask you about it just because I would feel like I was failing you as a doctor if I didn’t,” Jim explains.

I relax at that. I don’t know what I thought he was going to ask me, but this isn’t bad. I can handle this no problem. “I’m not suicidal,” I tell him simply.

“Okay, I’ve heard things, but can you tell me why you were put on suicide watch?” Jim asks as he closes the file, puts it on the couch beside himself.

“The first time it was actually in Danny’s hand. He walked into me, it fell between us, and Marcus was there, but he couldn’t tell who it had come from,” I explain.

“Danny did this on purpose,” Jim says. It’s not a question.

I nod. “The second time it was actually in Joey’s room. He told you this, right?” I ask just to make sure.

He smiles. “He already came clean, so you don’t have to worry about getting him in trouble with your answers,” Jim says.

“Okay, then it was in Joey’s room. I was taking it back to the shower room when Robert caught me,” I say with a frown. “I’ve either lost my ability to lie and be sneaky being on these medications or Robert is just really good at his job,” I say, bordering on a pout now.

Jim nods. “I would think it’s a little of both. Robert is extremely good at what he does. He was actually requested to transfer here. Did you know that?” he asks.

I shake my head. “Nope,” I answer.

“Have you ever had thoughts about harming yourself before?” Jim asks me.

I let out a sigh. This sucks. I don’t want to have to think about the hard stuff. “When my dad first died I didn’t want to be here anymore, if that’s what you’re asking about,” I reply.

“Okay, have you ever had a plan?” he asks.

“A plan on how to off myself, you mean?” I ask with a raised eyebrow, and Jim just nods. “Well, I’ve thought of ways, but never actually planned to act them out,” I admit. I don’t know why I’m telling him this, but after what I’ve told him so far, I feel like I can tell the man anything.

“Can you tell me one of the ways?”

I chuckle at that. It sounds like such a strange thing to ask another person, but this is therapy. “Alcohol poisoning always sounded like a good way to go to me, but I’ve got a high tolerance, so I’d need quite a lot,” I tell him with a grin.

“Do you drink often?” he asks me, poker face firmly intact.

I chuckle again. “That probably came out wrong, didn’t it? I wouldn’t say I get plastered all that often, but when I do, it takes a lot of alcohol to get me there,” I rephrase.

“Do you go out to drink?”

“Yeah, I go to bars. I play pool, win a lot, get in fights sometimes, win more pool,” I say with a smile.

“How do you get back to the motel room?” he asks.

“I usually walk to the bar. It leaves my baby safe from me, leaves her available for Sam if he needs her,” I tell him.

“And you usually make it there in one piece?”

“Sometimes Sam comes and drags me back if he’s worried, but yeah, I make it okay,” I reply, and Jim nods. “It really sounds worse than it is. Most of the time I only have a few drinks so that I can still stand up straight when I play,” I say with a chuckle.

“What does Sam think of all this?” he asks me.

I wince. “Sam doesn’t really appreciate the fact that I drink as often or as much as I do, and he doesn’t like the way I get the money because of the risky nature of it, but all in all I think he handles it fine,” I say.

“Have you ever had to fight your way out of the bar?” he asks.

“Yeah, more than once,” I admit.

“Do you and Sam ever get into fights over how you make the money for the two of you?” Jim asks me.

I nod. “We both talk about getting real jobs sometimes, but it’s just not practical.”

“If you were to get out of here right now, do you think you would get a real job? Settle down?” he asks me.

I look down at my hands, hope this isn’t one of those questions that changes what he suggests be done with me. “I don’t think I could yet,” I say honestly as I look up at him.

“Do you think you’ll ever be ready?”

I nod. “I guess I would be one day, just not yet.”

“Do you think Sam would ever settle down?” he asks me.

I chuckle at that. “Sam would love to settle down somewhere,” I tell him.

“Why do you think he doesn’t?”

I shrug. “I’m not all that certain myself. We’ve always been pretty close, so that alone could play a part. But he seems so concerned about me and the way I’ve acted since Dad died that I wonder if he isn’t just hanging around to keep me sane, safe.”

“Do you think you’ve changed since your father died?” Jim asks.

“I know I’ve been short with him,” I answer guiltily.

“He tries to get you to talk?”

“...and I just blow him off,” I mumble, looking down at my hands again.

“You’re all he has in this world. It must be scary for him to see you hurting so badly, but not talking to him about it,” Jim comments.

“I guess so,” I say, knowing that it’s completely true.

“Why do you think you’re purposely pushing him away,” he asks me.

I look up at him, probably a little bit of surprise written on my face. Am I that obvious when it comes to Sam? I look away. “I don’t really know,” I say as I focus on my name on the side of my file on the couch.

“Do you think maybe part of it’s because you think you might lose him, too?” Jim asks softly.

I scan the books on the shelving unit to my right, but I can’t read the actual names on them from where I’m sitting. There are so many books here that I just know Sam would probably drool over them, all different sizes and colors.

“Do you think that, if he sees that maybe you’re not the perfect big brother he grew up thinking you were, he’s going to leave you?”

This is making my chest hurt. And the bastard probably knows it, too. I miss Sam so much, and all this talking about him doesn’t help at all.

“Do you think he’s missing his college life enough that he’s going to leave you to go back to school?”

My stomach clenches. Maybe Sam already is settling down somewhere. Maybe he’s been waiting for me to be taken care of for a while now so that he can go off and do his own thing. Where better to get rid of your big brother than in a loony bin? Fuck! Now the backs of my eyes are prickling. This stupid fucker is going to make me cry. Again.

“You said before that you know he wants to settle down, but you know that you’re not ready yet. Are you pushing him because you want what’s best for him, or could you be pushing because you’re scared?” Jim asks gently.

“I’m not scared. He can do what he wants with his life,” I say, voice not as strong as I was hoping it would be as I say it. There’s a plant on the coffee table between us. Was the plant there last time? The soil is dry. I try not to blink.

“Do you think he’s close to leaving already? One more good push, and he might finally leave?”

“I guess,” I mumble, still staring at the stupid plant. I have no clue what kind it is, but I can’t cry. I can’t let him see me cry.

“Are you scared that he’s already left you?” Jim asks.

I shake my head no, feel a traitorous tear trickle down my right cheek. I wipe it away quickly, but not fast enough to avoid his gaze. “Sam wouldn’t do that,” I almost whisper. There’s a stain on the wooden coffee table.

“So would you say that’s your worst fear regarding Sam?”

My bottom lip quivers a bit. I bite it to keep it under control, but a few more tears make their way down my cheeks. I wipe them away with my hand. “Sam wouldn’t do that,” I tell him again, a little stronger this time.

Jim seems to let that all sink in for a moment. “Tell me what’s going to happen if you talk to him,” he requests.

I look up at him finally. “What do you mean?” I ask, glad that he hasn’t pointed out my wet face.

“What would happen if you were to actually talk to him, tell him what he wants to hear?” Jim rephrases. I shrug, wipe at my face once more. “How do you think he would react if you sat him down, told him that you’re scared he’s going to leave you?”

I shrug again, this time look to the left where there are more shelves, more books. I can read a few of the names on some of the books over there.

“Are you scared he’ll leave you even sooner than if you didn’t talk to him?” Jim asks me.

I focus on one book in particular. The binding is kind of pretty. It’s a bit of a psychedelic swirl of red, orange, and yellow. I can’t really read the binding because the print is too small and my fucking eyes are still a little watery.

“Tell me something that he normally asks of you,” Jim requests, changes tactics.

“What do you mean?” I ask, my voice still softer than usual, my eyes still focused on the pretty book.

“When he wants you to talk to him, what is something that he asks of you?”

I look at the next shelf down. There’s a book with a bright red cover, the words on this one a blur, too. “I don’t know,” I lie.

“Dean?”

“Yeah?”

“Dean,” Jim says again, this time making it clear that he wants my attention without turning my name into a bark.

I turn and look him in the eye, bite my tongue a little bit to get the prickling in my eyes to go away some. “Yeah?”

“What does he ask of you?” Jim asks again.

I let out a bit of a nervous chuckle that turns into more of a choking noise because my throat’s so fucking tight. I wrap my arms around my stomach. “He usually wants to talk about Dad,” I admit softly.

“What about your dad?”

He’s not going to let this one go, is he? This fucking sucks. “He thinks I’m not grieving properly. Wants me to cry or some shit,” I tell him with a bit of a snarl.

“You didn’t cry over your dad?” Jim asks without making it sound like a bad thing. I shake my head no. “Why not?”

I shrug. “I just didn’t,” I reply.

“You didn’t want to or you didn’t let yourself?” he asks me. I shrug again. “Okay, so Sam wants you to cry and shit. Did he?”

I nod. “Yeah, he’s the poster boy for normal, so of course he did.”

“What happened to him when he did that?” Jim asks. I give him a puzzled look. “Did anything bad happen when he let himself cry?”

“I guess not,” I say, not quite getting where he’s going with this.

“What’s going to happen if you let yourself cry?” he asks.

Oh, that’s where he was going. What is it with therapists and wanting people to cry? He’s got a bit of a scruffy thing going on with his beard. He looks good that way.

“Are you scared Sam’s going to see you cry?”

“No,” I say with a shake of my head.

“You’re not scared he’s going to think a little less of you for crying?” Jim asks.

I shake my head again. “I don’t think Sam would feel that way.”

“I didn’t ask how Sam would feel about it,” he says.

I let out a sigh. I don’t want to keep talking about this. He’s dragging everything out. My skin feels a little prickly. I feel like strangling him. I wonder if anybody around here ever has. Before I can help it, the picture comes into my head, and I actually grin. I look down at my hands, get the grin to go away, hope he hasn’t seen it.

“You want to tell me what that was for?” Jim asks, smile evident in his tone of voice.

I shake my head no, and the grin actually comes back along with a snort. I really used to be better at hiding stuff than this. I don’t know what my problem is.

Jim chuckles. “You can tell me anything, Dean,” he says.

“Okay, I was just wondering if anybody has ever choked you during therapy,” I finally say.

Jim laughs at that, the corners of his eyes crinkling. “No, I can’t say as anyone has actually done that before. I have had a patient throw something at me, though,” he says, still chuckling.

“Ouch,” I say with a wince.

He sits up, puts my file on the coffee table. “Well, if someone is having thoughts of choking their therapist, I do believe that’s a good time to call it a day,” he says, stands up.

“Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to--”

“It’s okay,” Jim interrupts me. “This is for you, remember?”

“But I didn’t mean I really want to choke you,” I say.

Jim chuckles again, holds out his hand to help me up. “Dean, it’s okay,” he says again. “You don’t have to explain yourself to everyone all the time.” I stand up, letting him help me. “Just do me a favor and think a little bit about what we talked about today, okay?”

I nod. “Yes, sir,” I say politely.

He opens the door for me. “Walk with me to group?” he asks.

“I still have to go there?” I whine.

Jim claps a hand on my back, directs me out the door, turns to close and lock it. “I’m sorry, but yes,” he says.

“So what’s with going to group every fucking day of the week,” I grumble on the way.

Jim chuckles. “I know it seems a bit much, but there are a lot of things it accomplishes, the biggest being socialization. Many patients wouldn’t even look at each other if it wasn’t for group therapy,” Jim explains.

“Okay, I can see that,” I say, knowing I’d be one of the ones he’s talking about.

“Then there’s what the patients learn from each other by talking about their problems, solutions, and mistakes out loud with a counselor there to guide things along. People like to know they’re not alone. Group therapy lets them see that they’re not the only ones going through what they’re going through.”

“Kind of like when you did that thing where everybody had to say when they last hurt somebody and what they learned from it?” I ask as we get close to the room.

“That’s it exactly. And then the last one, the one that’s particularly important for our setting, is that patients learn to interact with other patients in group therapy. The patients are here because, for one reason or another, they have been found unfit to live amongst society. Group is a perfect opportunity to learn basic skills they may not otherwise have.”

We stop at the doorway. “Can I still complain about it even now that I know all those good reasons to have it?” I ask with my charmingly cute look firmly in place.

Jim laughs at that. “Yes, now go find a seat,” he says, still chuckling. “Hey, everybody,” Jim says with a big smile on his face.

Some of the men say something back, some wave, and Joey grins at the both of us. I take the seat across from Joey.

“Okay, guys, we’ve had a good week this week. Let’s end it on a good note. I know some of you are reading books. I thought it would be nice if a couple of you gave a quick overview of what you’ve read so far. Dean?” Jim says as he turns to me.

“Oh, man, how did I know you were going to call on me?” I groan. Everybody chuckles. “I keep falling asleep as Joey reads it to me, but I think it’s about a bunch of people in a forest. I think there might be some monkeys involved,” I say with a wince. More of the men laugh, but Joey’s the loudest.

Once he calms down enough to speak, he tells everyone, “It’s an old Michael Crichton book called Congo. It’s one of my favorites, and I’ve been reading it to him.” He gives me a cute smile. “And there are monkeys in it,” he says, chuckling.

“Simon?” Jim says as he turns to the man sitting next to Joey.

“Well, I’ve actually been hoping for a new Stephen King book for a while now, and they finally got one in here, but it’s The Girl Who Loved Tom Gordon,” Simon says with obvious disappointment. “I’m reading it again as it’s not horrible, but it’s just not as exciting as his other books,” he complains.

“So what’s it about?” Joey asks.

Simon turns to Joey. “It’s about a nine-year-old girl who gets lost on a trail between Maine and New Hampshire. It’s about her surviving, and of course there’s something watching her just to make it clear it’s a Stephen King book,” Simon explains.

“Stephen King sucks,” Angel says with a sneer. “Those movies are so corny!”

Simon chuckles. “Have you ever actually read one of his books?” he asks Angel.

“No,” he replies.

“Well, you’re missing out. The movies, while they’re not horrible, are nothing like the books. You should read one. Come and tell me what you think of him then,” Simon tells him.

“Jeff?” Jim says, turning to the guy next to me when it seems like Angel might start in with something that could potentially lead to a fight.

Jeff blushes. “You’re going to laugh at me, but there was nothing else left that I hadn’t read yet,” he says, looking extremely uncomfortable.

“Go for it, Jeff,” Joey says with a grin. “At least we’ll be entertained for a while.”

“It’s a Streisand book,” he says, then covers his face with his hands while all the men chuckle. “There wasn’t anything else!” he says with a smile.

“You think that’s bad,” another man says from my left. “I’m reading a book on speed reading,” he says, and everybody chuckles at that.

“Okay, guys, that’s excellent,” Jim praises as he looks around at us. “I’ll see you all on Monday.” He stands up and makes his way out the door.

 

MONDAY

 

At three a.m. I awaken crying from an extremely vivid dream. I’m crying so hard I can barely breathe. I get on my hands and knees in bed, my head hanging over my pillow. I’m gasping in between sobs. All I can remember is Sam dying. I was right there. I could have helped, but I couldn’t move. The yellow-eyed demon killed my brother, and I couldn’t do a thing to stop it.

I really can’t figure out why I’m crying so hard. It’s not real, and I keep telling myself that. I even say it out loud a couple of times just to make sure I know it. I finally get my breathing to slow down a bit so I can begin to lessen the crying.

When I finally get the sobbing to stop, I sit sideways on my bed, my back against the wall. I bring my legs up to my chest, drop my head back against the wall. Then come the hiccupping and snorting. I hate this. There’s not even any tissue in my room. I’m all sweaty, too.

I’m so tired that I keep falling asleep sitting up, but I don’t sleep very well. Every time I close my eyes, I see the bastard killing Sam. Every time I wake up when my head falls to my chest, I start to cry a little.

“Dean,” I hear Greg say.

My whole body tenses, and I gasp as my eyes fly open. “I’m in bed! I’m in bed!” I say rather loudly.

Greg shushes me. “You’re not in trouble. I just wanted to check on you because Dale said that you were sleeping sitting up,” he tells me, concern in his tone.

“Sorry,” I say as I slide down, lay my head on the pillow.

Greg sits on the edge of my bed. He wipes at my left cheek with a thumb. “Were you crying?”

“No.”

“Was it another nightmare?” he asks me.

I close my eyes. “No,” I lie again, this time hoping that he won’t be able to tell with my eyes closed. I feel like shit.

Greg lets out a sigh. I can tell he knows I’m lying. “Well, it doesn’t matter. If you’re having trouble sleeping, you’re having trouble sleeping,” he says.

“No! Don’t tell Richards!” I say as I look up at Greg. “Greg, please! I can’t go back on that shit! I just can’t! Please!” I beg him.

“Calm down,” Greg says as he takes my wrist in his hand. He checks my pulse. “Your heart’s beating a little fast. Are you going to be able to go back to sleep or do you need a shot?” he asks me.

I pull my hand away from him. “No! No shot!” I say, then bury my face in my pillow, wait for his decision.

Greg sighs again, stands up. “I’ll check on you in a half an hour. If you’re still awake, I’ll give you the shot,” he tells me.

I don’t bother replying to him, just leave my face in my pillow as I hear the door close. I don’t want the shot. I want them to leave me alone. I want to stop having nightmares that make me cry my lungs out of my fucking chest.

I grumpily sit on the couch in the common area later that day. So far I’ve been rude to Robert when I got my pills, ignored Joey when he tried to talk to me, and actually thrown a book across the room. It sucks, too, because it was actually getting a little interesting, and there’s no way I’m going to go pick it up.

The nightmares have got me on edge. I don’t remember the last time I’ve been this unnerved about something. That’s on top of the feeling that the drugs give me, being overtired, feeling lonely, missing Sam, being fucking emotional, sick to my stomach, sick of life, and generally just fed up with it all.

I lay my head back on the couch with a groan as I remember that I’ve got an appointment with Richards in ten minutes. That just makes this day even better. In this mood, I’ll get myself sent to the Pit.

My eyes fall on Joey, across the room on a couch as he reads his book. I realize he’s reading the Michael Crichton without me. My chest hurts a little, but then I remember that I’m pissed. As if I had forgotten. I look out the window, wallow in my thoughts.

Simon sits down on the couch next to mine. He’s got his Stephen King book in hand. “You know, sometimes in a place like this, a best friend is all you have,” he says without looking at me. It almost seems like he’s commenting to the room, but loud enough for only me to hear.

I get up without saying a word, walk to Richards’ door. I knock louder than is really necessary.

“Come in,” Richards says loud enough for me to hear. “Have a seat, Dean,” he says without looking up from my folder.

“And how has the nighttime medicine helped you this week?” he asks as he finally looks up at me.

“It’s making it easier to sleep,” I say blandly.

“Are you still having nighttime awakenings?” Richards asks. I shake my head no. “Any trouble with nightmares?” he asks me.

“No, sir,” I lie, although I don’t think this guy can tell.

“Okay, then we’ll leave the dosages where they are for the time being,” he says as he makes a notation in my file. “Do you have any questions or comments regarding the medications?”

“No, sir,” I say again.

Richards gives me a tight-lipped smile. “All right, then you may leave,” he says.

I try not to slam the door. I have no idea what that would get me, but I’d rather not find out. I go back out to the couch, fling myself down into the same spot I occupied before going to Richards’ office. 

I then proceed to eat lunch alone, shower alone, take a piss alone, and then sit on the couch alone as I look out the windows. I watch the clock every once in a while so Robert and Joey don’t have to come over to me to tell me it’s time for group.

If there was a day I wanted to get out of group, this would be it. I don’t want to listen to other people’s problems. I don’t want to talk about my own. I don’t want to hear little encouraging words from Jim. I don’t want to hear the men laugh. I don’t even want to hear other people speak. I think I don’t even want to be around myself today.

I walk to group slowly, almost dragging my feet as I go. By the time I get there, only one seat is open. I sit in it, look down at my hands.

“I hope everyone had a nice weekend,” Jim starts off by saying.

I zone out. Why is he always so fucking happy? Maybe it’s because he has the option of leaving this hellhole whenever he wants to while the rest of us rot where we’re not even allowed to have pens because we might kill someone with it. Oh, but we’re allowed crayons if we want to draw a pretty picture.

I hear the guy to my right talking, but I don’t even listen. My stomach hurts. What’s new? I’m sick of being polite and nice, honest. It hasn’t gotten me anywhere. Actually it’s gotten me on more medication as I was truthful in telling that I was having difficulty sleeping. I ended up getting knocked out cold on the floor of a cell for my troubles.

“Dean, would you like--”

“No,” I grumble, interrupting him. I don’t even know what he was going to ask of me.

“Okay, then what about you, Joey?” Jim asks, focusing his attention immediately on someone else.

Jim didn’t even make it sound like it was a big deal that I didn’t want to talk. He just moved on. I guess I can’t be that ticked with him. That was nice of him. I hear Joey’s voice, but am too focused on my misery to listen. These nightmares have got to stop. I’m going to end up back on the tranquilizer if I’m not careful. I thought I would stay out of trouble by staying in my bed. I should have known better than to think I was safe in a place like this.

“Okay, I’ll see you all tomorrow,” Jim says finally.

I’m the first one out the door. I go in and take a long, hot shower. I don’t bother looking around to see if I’m alone. I think that, given my mood, I would feel bad for anybody who dared to touch me.

Once I’m changed, I go out to the common area, watch the stupid black and white that they have playing. I pretend to watch the movie, but actually end up sleeping more than anything else.

I eat dinner alone, read until ten when I pick up my pill from Greg. I don’t even say anything to the man when he says something to me. I just down the pill and put the cup back up on the counter, walk to my room, go to bed.

I wake up twice from nightmares, not even able to dry out from the first one before I’m gasping from the second one. I don’t dare sit up or get out of bed. I just curl in myself, kick the blanket off of the bed, and cry into my pillow. This is getting worse.

 

TUESDAY

 

I get out of bed at ten to nine, just before they come around to get you out. I miss breakfast, but pick up my pills anyway. Robert isn’t at the nurse’s station, but I think I would ignore him again anyway.

There’s nothing to do here. I can’t even exercise in any way. I’m turning into a vegetable here, and nobody gives a shit. Soon I’ll be as pale as Joey.

Everybody is leaving me alone. Sam wouldn’t leave me alone in this mood if he were here. He never gives up. He doesn’t even care if I yell at him. He refuses to leave me in a bad mood. He’s extremely persistent. He’s evil. If he catches me at just the right time, he wrestles me down to the floor, tickles me until I’m laughing so hard I’m crying. I’d never admit that to anyone, but it happens. It can easily backfire on him if I’m seriously not in the mood, but for the most part it works. I miss him.

My appointment with Jim is at eleven, and I sit on the couch in the common area cringing. I don’t want to go. He’s going to make me talk. He’s going to talk to me. He’s going to be all happy and annoying. I doubt that he’ll make me cry today, though. Maybe I’ll be the next patient to throw something at him. I wonder if I should aim for the head.

As I walk down the hallway, Simon passes me, totally ignores me. He must have just come from Jim’s. I knock on Jim’s door at one minute to eleven, and of course he greets me with a smile.

I brush past Jim, sit down on the couch, wrap my arms around my stomach. This is going to be absolute torture, although for which one of us, I don’t know. Jim sits down across from me, puts my folder down on the cushion next to him.

“Has Joey read to you any more since last week?” he asks me with a small smile, obviously getting a feel for what I’ll be like today, as if my attitude on the way in didn’t give him all the information he needs. He’s not stupid, and he’s fucking observant.

I shake my head no, look down at my knees, because obviously they’re more interesting than everything else in the room.

“Have you read any more of your own book?” he asks, still polite and unobtrusive in his wording and tone.

I nod this time, but I’m finding it hard not to say something to him. I don’t know why I’m being a bitch, but I am, and it appears that Jim has a way of making a person less bitchy just by being him. Fucker.

Jim leans forward, rests his elbows on his knees. “Dean, if you ever want to tell me anything or you have something you’d like to discuss, please know that I’m here for you and open to anything,” he tells me sincerely.

I’m so fucking tired. I thought I was tired before, but that was nothing in comparison to being on these drugs and not sleeping well at night.

Jim gives me a little time, then tries again. “I’m not a mind reader, though. I need you to talk to me so I can help. If there’s something wrong...,” Jim trails off.

“I can’t fucking sleep,” I growl, still not looking up at him. Then I get a chill that goes up my spine when I realize I’ve actually told him what’s wrong. Now I’m definitely going back on the tranquilizers. I’m such a baby. What’s happening to me?

“Are you still having problems with nightmares?” Jim asks.

I let out a sigh, let my head fall onto the back of the couch, squeeze my eyes closed. “Are you going to tell Richards?” I ask, voice flat.

“I don’t tell Richards specifics. I make recommendations, but he won’t hear it from me, no,” Jim assures me.

“Greg’s probably going to tell him, anyway,” I mumble.

“Can you remember the nightmares?” Jim asks me.

“At first I couldn’t, but now I can’t get them out of my head,” I say as I sit up and look at him.

“Do you want to tell me what--”

“They’re about Sam,” I interrupt him. “The yellow-eyed demon kills Sam, and I’m there, but I can’t do anything about it,” I say as I rub my hands over my eyes tiredly.

“Can you tell me what’s holding you back?” he asks as he leans back, gets comfortable again now that I’m talking to him.

I shake my head no. “I can’t see that anything’s got me. I just can’t move,” I explain as I wipe my palms on my pants.

“Do you want to tell me what you see?” he asks carefully.

I feel like an idiot. This is so stupid. I wrap my arms around my stomach again while silently wondering if this is a huge mistake. “It’s dark, but around us there’s light so we can see each other clearly. It looks like forest out beyond us, but I can’t really tell. I see everything at an angle from just behind myself. I’m not looking through my own eyes. I can’t move, but I can speak. Sam is standing far enough away from me that, even if I could move, I wouldn’t be able to touch him, but he’s turned toward me, looking at me. He’s about to say something when all of a sudden the yellow-eyed demon is behind him. Before I can warn Sam, the bastard punches a hole straight through Sam’s chest. I start screaming as loud as I can while rays of white light come spilling out of the hole, Sam screaming the whole time. Then he falls to the ground. The light slowly dims, and it’s gone by the time he’s dead. The dream ends with me still screaming,” I explain to Jim.

“That’s quite a dream,” Jim comments with a raised eyebrow.

“I guess,” I say with a shrug of my shoulders.

“You’ve never had problems with nightmares before, have you?” he asks me.

“Not that I know of, and I think Dad would have told me if I had them when I was little.”

“What happens when you finally wake up?” Jim asks.

I’d rather not say, but I guess he needs to know. “I’m crying so hard I can’t breathe,” I admit with a wince.

“You’ve told me before that Sam has nightmares that are actually visions. Do you believe this is what you’re experiencing as well?”

I shake my head no. “I don’t think so. I mean it could happen, but it doesn’t feel like it’s something from the future,” I tell him. “But I don’t understand why I’m not in the dream myself. Why am I just looking at the back of my own head?”

Jim crosses his legs. “It’s a way of distancing yourself from what’s happening, detaching yourself to keep yourself safe from the situation,” he informs me.

I let out a chuckle. “I’m keeping my dream self safe?”

Jim nods. “The whole scenario is something that you believe possible. You’re terrified of it happening. Why wouldn’t your brain try to keep you safe from that?”

“What about the light coming out of Sam?” I ask.

“Dream interpretation isn’t an exact science, but light, particularly white light, is said to be a source of purity, insight, and understanding. Applying that to your dream, I would say that, with all that’s gone on in your life, you still believe that your brother is good down deep inside, maybe even that he’s your guide,” Jim tells me.

“Okay, then why can’t I move?” I ask him.

“In some way you feel that you’re inadequate or unworthy when it comes to your brother,” Jim says.

“This is all totally whacked,” I say with a snort.

“You don’t have to believe it,” Jim says with a smile.

“No, no, it sounds good. I mean it’s a dream, you know? It’s just...,” I trail off.

“...that it all kind of hits home to exactly how you’re feeling and what we’ve been talking about?” Jim asks with a lopsided grin.

“You suck,” I grumble as I look down at the plant. The soil is wet today. He must have watered it. “So that’s it? I don’t have nightmares anymore now?” I ask as I look back up at him.

Jim shrugs. “Sometimes merely talking about your nightmares can make them go away. Sometimes working them out for yourself or writing about them can make them go away. Other times they don’t, and we just don’t know why,” Jim tells me.

“So I told you all this shit, and I’m just going to have another one again tonight?” I ask with a frown.

Jim nods. “It could happen that way,” he admits.

“You still suck,” I grumble again.

“Talking still helps,” Jim counters with a grin.

“You’ve already made me talk too much, you jerk,” I complain with a smile.

Jim leans forward, rests his arms on his knees. “Would you like to tell me why you consider yourself such a failure when it comes to your brother?” he asks me.

The plant is suddenly interesting again. “It just seems like no matter what I do, he’s going to turn, and there’s not going to be anything that I can do about it,” I say, then look up at Jim.

“If there’s nothing you can do about it, then how is it your fault?” he asks.

“If I was just...,” I trail off, eyes going to the shelving unit on my right.

“If you were just perfect, then your brother wouldn’t slip through your fingers?” he asks me. “You expect an awful lot out of yourself, Dean, and I think its holding you back in other aspects of your life, possibly even holding you back in regards to your brother,” Jim tells me.

“How can I be holding myself back when it comes to Sam if that’s what I’m all obsessing over?” I ask as I look at him, puzzled look on my face.

“You don’t talk to him about how you feel even when he asks you to. You refuse to show him your weaknesses, and I think it’s hurting your relationship. He pushes, you push back, and the two of you come out of it hurting,” Jim explains.

“So I need to constantly gush and--”

“That’s not what I said,” he interrupts me as he shakes his head no. “He comes to you, asks you how you’re handling your father’s death, and what do you say?”

“I’m fine,” I say with a shrug of my shoulders.

“Lying to him is not the way to improve on your relationship,” Jim says.

“Great, so I turn around, tell him I feel like I’m dying inside. Then what?” I ask, getting annoyed.

“What do you mean? He asked. You told,” Jim says.

“Well, he’s definitely not going to leave it at that,” I say.

“Is there anything wrong with saying that you feel that way, but you’d rather not get into it right at the moment?”

I chuckle. “You’ve never met Sam.”

“Don’t let him push you. He’s looking to get attention from you, and even if it means negative attention, it still means attention. If he won’t leave it at that, just walk away,” Jim says.

“You make it sound so easy,” I grumble.

“Not everything in life has to be hard and dramatic,” Jim says with a smile. “But talk to him eventually. Let him know how you’re feeling. You say you feel like you’re dying inside, he’d like to know about it whether it’s good or bad,” Jim tells me.

“So don’t lie to Sam?” I ask with a wince.

Jim shakes his head no. “That is the worst thing you can do to your relationship whether he believes you or not,” Jim says.

“Not even just a little bit?” I whine.

“No, now go eat your lunch,” Jim says as he stands up, heads for the door.

“Do you eat alone?” I ask as I get up from the couch.

“Sometimes, but most of the time I eat in the faculty lounge with the other staff members,” he tells me.

“Just wondered,” I say with a shrug.

“See you at three for your favorite part of the day,” he comments as I walk out the door.

I hear the door close behind me before I can give him any backtalk. I walk out to the common area and spot Joey. Man, I feel like a jerk. But I don’t want to apologize, and I really don’t feel all that pleasant and nice, even after talking to Jim. I’m still pissed and tired.

Instead of heading to the cafeteria, I take a shower. I make it last long enough so that there’s only fifteen minutes left to get lunch. When I get there, there’s only one other person eating. It’s Simon. I know he won’t bother me. Joey must still be reading on the couch.

I grumpily shove the food into my face, not even bothering to notice the flavor of anything, and just try not to choke. After lunch, I go out to the common area, pass out on the couch. I manage to not have any nightmares while I sleep.

I wake up about ten minutes before group, lazily make my way there. I’m the second one to the room. Angel is already there, and he looks just about as happy to be there as I am.

“Hey,” he grunts when he sees me.

“Hey,” I reply in much the same tone, take a seat. I watch as the others slowly filter in. At least participation isn’t mandatory here. I think I might just have to go ahead and choke Jim if it were. I know it’s not his fault, but see if I care when it comes to asking me a question.

“Okay, it’s been a while since I’ve asked, but has anybody had any contact with their family members this week?” Jim asks, looks around at the men.

“I got to talk to my little brother again,” Angel says with a smile that lights up his face. The guy actually has a nice smile.

“That’s great. What did the two of you talk about?” Jim asks him.

“He told me about school,” Angel replies, smile leaving his face.

“Oh, how’s it going?” Jim asks.

Angel winces. “He’s flunking one of his subjects, and he’s not doing so good in all the others,” he admits.

Jim frowns. “I’m sorry to hear that, Angel. Did he have anything else to say?”

Angel shakes his head no. “No, he just told me he’s probably going to repeat this year over again,” Angel says.

“I’m sorry, Angel,” Jim tells him. “Avery, did you talk to your family this weekend?” Jim asks as he turns to the guy who told about building a tree house for his daughter. I guess I never bothered to get his name. Funny that there’s aren’t that many guys here, and I still don’t know all their names.

“My daughter, Christina, talked to me, but she said Gina was busy. My wife seems to be busy a lot lately when it comes to talking to me,” Avery says, sounding pretty down about it.

I zone out again. At least these drugs are good for one thing. If I want to zone out, I can do it quite easily as I’m constantly fucking tired. I’m the first one out the door again, but this time I stay up and read until dinner. I eat dinner alone, then go out to watch the movie.

I’m hoping that staying up as late as they let me, not falling asleep, maybe I’ll be too tired and worn out to have a nightmare. I know it’s a long shot, but I’m scared they’re going to put me on those fucking tranquilizers. I can’t do that again. 

I take my pill at ten, wishing I was able to take two of them. I stay up reading until Greg announces that it’s time for lockdown. I lie down, do some deep breathing that I once heard somewhere would help, then fall asleep quickly.

 

**WEDNESDAY – WEEK 2**

I awaken with a gasp, shivering. This time it’s a cold sweat. I feel like my skin is crawling. I force myself to stay down, not get up. I can’t let Greg know. I can’t. My legs won’t stop moving, and I rub my arms with my palms, hoping to get the feeling back to normal.

It was a different dream this time, and I wonder to myself if I’ll tell Jim on Thursday what it was about. I suppose I’ll have another one before I go to see him anyway. I might even have another one tonight.

It takes forever to get back to sleep. When I finally wake, it’s past time for breakfast, so I take my time showering and changing. I head out to the couch, sit at the far end, watch the clouds that I can see from such a bad vantage point. After a while I feel someone sit down on the other end of the couch, assume it’s Joey.

“Okay, I don’t want to push or anything, because I know, when I feel like shit, I don’t want people to bother me, but I just have to know if I said something to you to make you ignore me or if it’s just that you feel like shit,” Joey says in what seems like one breath.

I can’t help it. The kid makes me smile. I sit up from my slouched position, turn my head to see that the boy is turned toward me, his left leg bent and up on the couch. He looks anxious. “It’s not you, man,” I say with a stupid smile on my face.

Joey’s face brightens instantly, his shoulders drop in relief. “Oh, fuck, you had me scared, you asshole,” Joey complains.

“Sorry,” I say with a wince.

“So what’s up?” he asks me, looking concerned.

“I’m just having trouble sleeping,” I grumble.

“Do you get wicked nightmares on the shit they give you, too?” he asks me.

I let out a bit of a chuckle. “Kind of,” I give.

“Kind of?” Joey asks with a raised eyebrow.

“All right, fine, wicked nightmares it is, then,” I admit.

“You’re not alone. Everybody around here has vivid dreams to some extent. It’s worse for some than others, though. I’m guessing that yours are enough to fuck with your sleep,” Joey says with a wince.

“You guessed correctly,” I say as I rub my hands over my face, through my hair. “Know anything that helps?” I ask.

Joey chuckles bitterly. “Tranquilizers,” he says flatly.

I let out a groan. “I’m so not doing that again,” I tell him.

“So do you want to have lunch with me, or are you still going to be a bitch?” Joey asks with a grin.

“Is it time already?” I ask, looking for the clock.

“Five past,” he says as he stands up, holds a hand out to me.

I let him help me up. “I’m glad you said something. I probably would have daydreamed my way through not only lunch but also my appointment with Richards,” I tell him.

“Richards gets all mean and ornery when somebody’s late for an appointment,” Joey informs me.

We each grab a tray, head to a table in the back. The place is full, and I’m glad we found a table with no one else at it already.

“Okay, so you can tell me to go to Hell if you want, but I want to know about these nightmares if they’re enough to get you being all Mr. Bitch and not sleeping well,” Joey says as he unwraps his sandwich.

I chuckle, then bite into an apple. “My baby brother keeps getting killed,” I tell him with a mouthful.

“That does suck,” Joey says with a frown.

“Yeah, but I don’t think it’s as bad as I’ve been making it out to be. It’s not like it’s really happening,” I say with a shrug.

“If it’s vivid and pretty real to you, then who’s to say you’re making a big deal out of it?” Joey asks reasonably.

“Yeah, well, if I keep it up, Richards is going to put me on tranquilizers permanently,” I whisper.

“Ouch!” Joey says with a sour look on his face. “Didn’t he see how badly you reacted to them last time?”

“Apparently sleep is more important to him than those other little things like breathing,” I growl.

“So we’re not telling Robert or Greg, then?” he asks me.

I shake my head no. “Definitely not,” I tell him. We both eat in silence for a little while. “Do they tell you the names of any of this shit they force down your throat?”

Joey smiles at that. “I think they feel special when they can prescribe things for us idiots and not tell us anything about them. Robert and Greg won’t even tell me what they’re giving me. I’ve asked what’s in those shots about a hundred times,” he complains.

“Yeah, I just get told that they’re sedatives or pills that will make me feel better. If I wouldn’t have been nearly passed out, I think I would have when Robert said I was on a tranquilizer,” I say with a chuckle.

“Richards won’t tell me the name of that new one he put me on that makes me sleep too much,” Joey says. “I wish I knew the names so that, if I ever do get out of here, I’ll know what I like and what I don’t. There are some that I know I like, ones that make me feel better, but I don’t know them from the others that make me feel like shit,” he grumbles.

“I can’t say as I’ve liked anything these pills have done,” I say as I crumble up my plastic wrap from my sandwich.

“One of them seriously makes the urges to cut back off,” Joey says.

“That would be a good effect, then,” I say with a smile.

Joey chuckles. “I would think so.” Joey finishes his sandwich, starts in on his apple. “I miss bathtubs,” he comments.

I laugh at that. “Nice subject change,” I say with a smile.

Joey smiles at that. “The bathtub is where I used to do most of my cutting,” he explains.

“Ah, okay, I see the transition now,” I say with a grin.

“I used to love filling the tub with hot water, putting my headphones on, and getting a fresh razor out of the plastic. It felt really good,” he says almost dreamily.

“Why the bathtub?” I ask him.

“It’s easier for cleanup for one thing. But mostly it just feels great being in water and... Well you probably don’t want to hear about that,” Joey finishes quickly, looking embarrassed.

“No, go ahead,” I encourage with a smile.

“Really?” Joey asks, seeming surprised.

“I dare you to gross me out,” I challenge.

Joey smiles. “Okay, then I like when the blood runs down your skin and swirls into the bathwater, makes all kinds of patterns. I like letting drops of water fall onto the wound, letting it take some blood, and then letting it roll down my leg in a little bead of red,” Joey says with an unsure look on his face.

“See, not grossing out,” I reassure him, and he smiles. “But I am sorry that you lost something that obviously means so much to you,” I tell him.

Joey shrugs. “With the drug that helps it, I don’t really miss it all that much,” he tells me.

“That’s cool,” I say with a smile.

“Do you like to cook?” Joey asks me.

“Not so much. I used to cook for the three of us all the time, and so I grew up not really liking it because it was more like a chore for me,” I tell him.

“I like to cook,” Joey says with a smile.

“What’s your favorite thing to make?” I ask him.

Joey thinks for a moment. “I don’t know if I have a favorite, but I like making cheesecake. I also like making stir fry because it’s different every time you make it,” he says excitedly.

“Pie?” I ask with a grin.

He nods. “I’ve made peach a few times because peach is my favorite, but I’ve also made cherry and blueberry,” he tells me proudly. “My mom didn’t like to cook, so I ended up making most of the meals.”

“You didn’t mind?” I ask.

“She would get me pretty much anything I asked for, so no, I didn’t mind,” he says.

“That’s cool,” I say with a smile.

“Hey, can you raise one eyebrow and not the other?” he asks me.

I chuckle at that. “Yeah,” I say as I demonstrate.

“My mom couldn’t do it,” he says with a giggle.

“I don’t think I’ve ever known someone who couldn’t do that,” I say.

“Me either. Just her,” he says as he rips a small piece off of his plastic wrap. “Ever been to college?” he asks as he rips off another piece.

“Nope,” I tell him.

“Ever thought about it?”

“Sure, I’ve thought about it, but other things were more important,” I reply.

“I’ve thought about it, too, but I never thought about doing anything in particular. I think it was just the idea of college life that interested me,” Joey says with a shrug. He continues tearing little pieces of plastic off. “What kind of clothes did you wear before you came here?” he asks me.

“Mostly black,” I say with a smile. “I always had on a pair of jeans, a T-shirt, some kind of overshirt, and my leather jacket. I miss my clothes,” I say with a wince.

“I do, too,” Joey says with a frown. “I used to wear jeans and T-shirts pretty much all the time. I usually wore dark colors. I used to look pale, but now I just look pathetic and ghost-like,” he grumbles.

“Yeah, I think I’m losing my tan in here,” I say as I hold out my left arm.

“No, you’ve got freckles. You don’t tan. You burn,” Joey says with a grin.

I laugh at that. “I do not have freckles,” I argue.

“I can see them from here, Dean,” he tells me.

“Nope, I don’t have freckles,” I say as I get up, take my tray over to the cart.

“Not going for it,” Joey says from behind me. I totally ignore him, head for the hallway instead. “Don’t try to tell Richards you don’t have freckles. He’ll put you on another drug because you have freckles,” he says, still following me.

I stick my tongue out at him as we part ways. He giggles again before turning away. My grin disappears and I cringe as I get closer to Richards’ door, wondering what he’ll decide to give me today. If he’s heard anything from Greg, I’ll get a brand new tranquilizer.

“Come in, Dean,” I hear the man call when I knock on his door. “Have a seat,” he says, pointing to the chair as if I’ve forgotten how this works. He looks over my file carefully for what seems like a really long time. “How do you feel the drugs are working, Dean?”

“They’re okay,” I say, hoping it doesn’t make him mad. I’m being ridiculous, I know, but at least he’s not threatening to put me on a new medication yet.

“The stomach pains?”

“Much better,” I assure him.

“Are you still sleeping well at night?” he asks again this time.

“Yes, sir,” I lie. It’s easier to lie when you don’t get caught.

“Any problems, comments, or questions about the medications?” he asks me.

“No, sir,” I reply.

“Then what I’m going to do is change our schedule. You seem to be stabilizing well on your current medication regimen, so I think it would be okay if you were to see me once instead of twice a week,” he tells me.

“Okay,” I say with a bit of a smile. One less time a week seeing this nut job is fine with me.

“I’ll see you on Wednesdays, then,” he says with a smile.

“Okay,” I say again.

“You may leave, Dean,” he tells me.

I walk out of his office feeling pretty good. This is definitely a good thing. This means he’s not thinking of making any serious changes in the near future. I hope.

 

**THURSDAY – WEEK 2**

The first thing I do when we come out of lockdown at six is take a shower to get rid of the horribly sticky feeling of having sweated for part of the night. I’m not the only one showering, so I don’t take as much time as I have been.

“Are you feeling any better than you were on Tuesday?” Jim asks me as I sit down on the couch for my eleven o’clock appointment.

“Does faking it better mean that I’m feeling better?” I ask.

Jim smiles, shakes his head no. “Tell me how you’re really feeling.”

“I feel awful,” I groan as I slide down into the couch a little. “I’m fucking tired, man,” I tell him.

“You haven’t said anything to Richards about this,” Jim says, and it’s not a question.

“No, he’ll put me back on the tranquilizer,” I say with a raised voice.

“Has he been asking you about your sleep patterns?” Jim asks with a raised eyebrow.

“Yes, and I’ve been lying straight to his face, because there’s no way in Hell he’s putting me back on that fucking tranquilizer,” I growl.

“Have you considered talking to him about upping the dosage on the pill that he’s giving you for sleep currently?”

“I don’t want to risk it,” I say as I shake my head no.

“Have you tried any relaxation techniques?” Jim asks me as if he just thought of it.

“I’ve tried some deep breathing just before going to sleep, if that’s what you mean,” I tell him.

“Yes, that’s one, but there are others. You can close your eyes and repeat words or phrases in your head to relax, get your muscles to relax. You can use imagery as well. Picture yourself in a peaceful place, control your breathing, concentrate on slowing your heart rate. You can also focus on each particular body part one at a time and tell it to relax. Start with your toes, work your way up,” Jim suggests.

I chuckle at that. “Sounds kind of corny,” I say with a grin.

“Yes, it may sound corny, but quite a few patients of mine over the years have gotten good use out of the last one I mentioned. It’s called progressive muscle relaxation. You tense each muscle group for five seconds, then rest it before you move on to the next muscle group,” Jim explains.

“Still sounds corny,” I tell him.

Jim shrugs. “It’s worth a try,” he says.

“I guess,” I say noncommittally.

“Well, what you’re doing now obviously isn’t working, so try something different,” Jim says. I shrug. “Okay, so what about the dreams themselves? Are you experiencing the same one you told me about the other day?”

“Last night it was, but the night before it was a new one,” I say.

“Do you want to tell me about it?” he asks casually enough that it doesn’t sound at all like a command.

“Well, you remember that hallucination I had once during group therapy?” I ask.

Jim nods. “Yes, I was just going over that again the other day, tying it in to what you told me about your family and your father last week,” he tells me.

“Oh, okay, then it’s kind of along the same lines. I’m an observer this time, too. I’m in a steel box that’s maybe nine feet squared. There’s enough light coming from somewhat up above me that I can see everything but the corners pretty well. I try to find a way out of the box, but as I’m searching, a jagged line is drawn in red on the wall in front of me. Flames burst out of the line, then both the line and the fire disappear. This keeps happening over and over again only in different spots around the box. Sometimes it burns me, and I swear I can feel it. Then I can hear Dad’s voice. He’s telling me that this is how he killed Sam, and now he’s going to kill me.”

“At what point did you wake up?” Jim asks me.

“I kept trying to get out of the way of the fire, out of the box, but I kept getting burned. One of the times the fire just seemed to engulf my whole body, and that’s when I woke up,” I explain. “So are you going to interpret this dream for me, too?” I ask with a smile.

Jim chuckles. “I told you the other day that dream interpretation isn’t an exact science, but being trapped somewhere is a very common theme in nightmares. You probably feel not only trapped here, but the situation your father left you in with regard to Sam probably feels suffocating as well,” he tells me.

“So you think the fire could just be that I believe it could happen just like I believed that Sam could be killed by the yellow-eyed demon in my other dream?” I ask him.

“You’ve got it,” Jim says with a smile. “Are you having any other nightmares?” he asks me.

“Yeah, but I can’t remember them by the time I wake up,” I tell him.

Jim takes a deep breath, sits forward with his arms on his knees like he’s getting ready to say something delicate. “I know you don’t like to talk about your dad, and that you haven’t said very much about him at all since being here, but now you’ve not only had a hallucination involving him, but you’ve also had a nightmare about him,” Jim says carefully.

I wrap my arms around my stomach. I knew this would come up eventually, but I was hoping it wouldn’t be this soon. “I don’t--”

“I know you don’t want to talk about him,” Jim interrupts me, “but he played a very large role in your life, and he was obviously very close to you. I really believe that talking about him with someone, even if it isn’t me, would help you a great deal.”

I look down at my knees. I don’t want to talk about Dad. This is making my stomach hurt worse. It’s kind of making my head feel funny, too.

“I’m not going to force you to talk about him, but I think it would be in your best interest,” Jim says, then leans back into the couch. He lets me think on it for a little while before speaking. “Can you tell me why you don’t want to talk about him?” he asks softly.

I shrug my shoulders, still not looking up at him. My throat is hurting, burning almost. My chest hurts, too.

“Are you afraid you’re going to cry?” he asks, not making it sound like a taunt at all. I shrug my shoulders again. “Are you afraid it’s going to hurt?” he asks me.

I don’t answer him in any way. I think he knows I’m afraid of both of those things, so I don’t need or want to answer him.

“What if we do something a little bit different? What if you just think back, and tell me the first memory you have of your dad?” Jim asks.

I don’t have to think about this one. A bit of a smile plays on my lips as I remember it. “I’m sitting on Dad’s lap, and he’s reading me a story,” I say, then instantly feel an ache deeper in my chest than I’ve felt all along. The smile disappears from my face. I squeeze my eyes shut, arms still wrapped around my stomach.

Jim gives me a few moments. “Do you remember how old you were?” he asks softly.

I shake my head no because I can’t trust my voice right now. I don’t want to cry, and I’m not there yet, but I know, if he keeps this up, I’m going to be.

“Was it before Sam was born?” he asks, and I nod. “Do you remember the book itself?” he asks me, and I shake my head no.

I don’t know why I’m reacting this strongly. It’s not even a particularly happy or sad memory. Sure, I look back on it now and smile, but it’s not anything to get this dramatic over.

“Did your dad read to you a lot when you were little?” Jim asks.

I nod again. I think he knows I’m not going to answer anything but yes or no questions right now. Smart man.

“That’s a really nice memory to have of him, Dean,” Jim says, and it sounds like he has a smile on his face. He gives me a moment. “Did he stop reading to you when Sam came along?” he asks.

I shake my head no. Then I get a flash of Sam and me both sitting on Dad’s lap, one on each thigh, and he’s reading to us. Again I don’t remember the book, but I remember his voice, the feeling of security from being in Dad’s arms. As I remember his voice, the backs of my eyes start burning, throat raw.

“Do you know why this is hurting so much, Dean?” Jim asks me.

“Why?” I growl as if it’s the only thing I can get out without crying, which it is.

“It’s because you’ve never let yourself grieve properly,” Jim tells me.

Thankfully that statement pisses me off enough that the strong need to cry backs off just a bit. “What the fuck’s that supposed to mean?” I growl again, eyes still closed.

“Everyone grieves in their own way, but there are stages of grief. If you skip one or more of those stages, you don’t grieve properly. It’s like you get stuck and can’t get out,” Jim explains.

“Bullshit,” I mumble as I rub my hands over my face, getting rid of the wetness from my eyes prickling. I’m not crying.

“I believe that you went into the first stage, and that you got stuck somewhere between the first and second stages, didn’t go any further than that,” Jim tells me.

I look up at him finally. “Bullshit,” I say as I shake my head no. “He’s dead. You move on. There’s nothing else to do. You can’t live in the past,” I tell him.

“You’re right about living in the past. But this is not bullshit. People can spend the rest of their lives grieving because they refuse to go through a normal grieving process,” Jim says.

I let out a growl, drop my head to the back of the couch. “Okay, then I’ll bite. What are the fucking stages?” I snarl, then look at Jim again.

Jim doesn’t appear fazed by my attitude. “The first stage is one of emotional numbness which is actually needed to get you through what needs to be done. After numbness comes a period of time when you want the person back so badly that you might think you see them in crowds. During this time it’s normal to feel agitated, angry, have difficulty concentrating, relaxing, and sleeping. It’s also a time where most people feel guilty about arguments or things left unsaid. Very strong emotions are felt during this time, and it’s not unusual to withdraw from family and friends. You may cry a lot, and have difficulty with memories and reminders. When that passes, you start to see your life in a positive light again. The final phase of grieving is to let go, get on with your life even though it’s not ever going to be the same again. That’s when your patterns of eating, sleeping, and other things go back to normal.”

“So I’m in limbo somewhere between one and two, huh?” I ask, skeptic tone to my voice, and pretty much feeling like I won’t cry anytime soon.

“You’ve withdrawn from Sam, you’re having trouble sleeping, your emotions are volatile, and as soon as anything is said about your father, you jump back to numbness to keep yourself safe,” Jim says bluntly.

“Okay, so I’ll admit that, when you say it like that, it doesn’t sound quite so fucked, but that doesn’t mean I’m just going to go with it. This is still all bullshit. It’s death. How can there be a set course?” I ask him.

“It’s how people have been dealing with death for as long as we’ve been around,” Jim tells me with a small smile. “Just because it’s been written in the journals of psychology doesn’t mean it’s a joke. If you don’t want to believe it, it’s up to you, of course,” Jim says with a shrug.

I look down at my knees again as I think about it all. It sounds logical when he says it, but I’m just having a hard time believing that I can’t just move on. Am I going to be like this forever?

“My father never grieved properly for his mother,” Jim says when I’m silent for a little while. “He got to the same stage as you, and then he just got stuck there. He pushed the rest of us away, got angry easily, threw himself into his work, and ended up dying without having ever truly grieved for her,” Jim says, sounding sad about it.

Well, I guess he would be able to recognize it in me if his father did the same thing. I just don’t know what to believe. Coming from a person who believes in the things I do, this sounds kind of pathetic.

“Why don’t you think about it over the weekend, and tell me on Tuesday what decision you’ve come to? I’m willing to work with you no matter what you decide is the truth, no matter what you decide to do,” Jim says as he stands up.

I finally look up at him as he offers me a hand up out of the couch. I let him pull me up, then head toward the door.

“In the meantime, work on those relaxation techniques, see if they don’t help your nightmares,” Jim reminds me.

“Yes, sir,” I say as I leave.

I hear the door close behind me. I feel numb right now. I feel tired. My brain even feels like it hurts.

“Read to me, man,” I say as I flop down on the opposite end of the couch Joey is sitting on.

“Mindfucked?” he asks with a sympathetic tone to his voice.

“Mindfucked,” I confirm.


	3. Week 3

**FRIDAY – WEEK 3**

New day, new nightmare. This time I wake up softly crying, so I’m able to stop pretty quickly. I just wipe my face with my hands, and I’m good for going back to sleep until I’m able to get to the showers.

I turn the water to as hot as I can stand it, let the soap suds wash away down the drain. I tilt my face up, enjoy the feeling of the water flowing down my body. Suddenly I’m hit hard from behind. The last thing I see is the knob heading straight for my face.

I wake to lights so bright that I squeeze my eyes closed again. I’m cold, but I’m on something soft, and I’m thankfully clothed.

“Just stay still, Dean,” I hear Robert say from my right side up by my head. I feel his hand start to rub up and down my right arm, and I instantly calm down. “Keep your eyes closed,” he says when I try to open them again.

“What happened?” I ask, making sure to keep my eyes closed as ordered.

“Can you tell us the last thing you remember?” Robert asks.

I feel a strange tugging sensation at the right side of my scalp just above my hairline. I try to reach for it, but find that I’m in restraints again. “Why am I strapped down?” I ask as I start to breathe a little heavier, panicking just a bit.

“Calm down, Dean. You’re okay. You fell in the shower room. You hit your head on one of the knobs, got yourself a bit of a gash on your scalp. Dan is putting some stitches in right now. That’s why your head feels a little funny. He numbed it up, but you’re probably feeling a bit of a pulling sensation,” Robert explains.

I let out a groan as I remember. “Something hit me,” I tell him.

“Simon had a bit of a freak out today, and he was running from the orderlies when they all ran into you,” Robert says.

“Simon?” I ask. “Doesn’t sound like Simon,” I say even taking into consideration I don’t know him that well.

“He’s been hoarding his medications in his room instead of taking them,” Robert explains.

“Oh,” I say intelligently. I try the restraints again. “But why am I tied down?” I ask again.

“If you’ll stay still, we can take those off,” Dan says from my left side.

“We didn’t know if you would wake up combative or not,” Robert tells me.

“I’ll be good,” I say with a grin.

“Okay, but stay still,” Robert says again as I feel him take the restraints off.

“Yes, sir,” I say obediently. “How many stitches, Doc?” I ask as I work hard at staying as still as I can. I’m used to having stitches put in, but I’m not used to the skin being numbed up first. This is kind of cool. It doesn’t hurt.

“I’m thinking it will end up being eighteen when I’m done,” he replies.

I smile. “Well, it’s not the worst I’ve had,” I comment.

Dan chuckles. “No, I suppose it’s not,” he says. “It’s actually a good thing you hit the knob. If you hadn’t, you would’ve gone face first into the tile wall,” Dan tells me.

I let out a chuckle. “I’ll take a scalp laceration over fractured facial bones any day,” I say with a smile.

Robert resumes his position on my right side, puts his hand on my shoulder. Sam used to touch some part of me while Dad put the stitches in. I missed it when Dad wasn’t around and Sam was the one doing the stitching.

“All the sutures are in, but I want you to stay where you are for a little bit longer,” Dan orders me. “Because of the location, I’m going to have to wrap your head with a bandage. The bandage will only have to stay on for the next twenty-four hours, though.”

“I’m going to look like such a dork,” I say with a grin, and the two men chuckle at that.

“Watch the bandage carefully for the next twenty-four hours. If the wound bleeds through, I want you to tell Robert immediately. Is that clear, young man?” Dan asks.

“Yes, sir,” I say. The man probably knows I hate doctors, would do anything to avoid one, and therefore the strict warning.

“Tell Robert if you have any concerns at all,” he continues. “If it starts to smell funny or a clear discharge soaks the bandage, I want you to tell him.”

“Yes, sir,” I say again as he gently lifts my head, wraps the bandage around it.

“All right, now I want to give you a shot,” Dan says

I instantly tense up, and my eyes fly open. Robert’s grip tightens, and I look up at him. I stay where I am, but I feel myself start to shake a bit.

“Are we going to have to put the restraints back on?” Robert asks me, eyebrow raised.

“No, sir,” I say with a wince.

“Close your eyes again, Dean,” Robert tells me, and I do as he says. “It’s going to go real quick.”

I startle when Dan picks my left arm up by my wrist, but then he just rests my arm across my chest. When I feel my pants being lowered on my left side, I squeeze my eyes closed even tighter. When he finally pokes my left hip with the needle, I manage to stay still, but I can’t help the little grunt that comes out.

“Okay, you’re all set to go,” Dan says cheerfully.

I open my eyes, and Robert helps me sit up on the bed. The infirmary is empty but for us and Danny. He’s on the left side of the room in the bed closest to the windows. He’s just staring out the windows.

Robert helps me down off the bed, and then takes me by my right upper arm. “Lean on me if you feel dizzy at all,” he says as we head for the door.

“I’m going to want those out in ten days, Dean,” Dan says as we get to the door.

“Yes, sir,” I say as we leave.

“That will be the Monday after this coming one, but it’ll be put onto your daily schedule that day, and I’ll remind you about it so you don’t forget,” Robert tells me as we walk down the hallway.

“I suppose you’re going to make me go back to Dan to get them out, aren’t you?” I ask with a scowl.

“Yup,” Robert says with a grin.

“Well, don’t you look spiffy,” I hear Joey comment as he sees the two of us heading for the common area. He’s got a big smile on his face, and his book is in his left hand. “Simon got you good!”

“Hey, yeah, where is Simon?” I ask as I turn to look at Robert.

“Where everybody goes when they refuse to take their medications,” Joey says before Robert can answer.

“Oh,” I say awkwardly and with a grimace.

“He’ll be okay,” Robert assures me. “He’s been doing so good for so long on his meds that it took me by surprise to find out he’d stopped them.”

“You don’t know why?” I ask.

“Nope,” Robert replies.

“Did you make Dean glow?” Joey asks.

Robert chuckles. “Yeah, but he doesn’t know it yet,” he says.

“Make me glow?” I ask, puzzled expression on my face.

“We sent you through the CT machine while you were out of it to make sure you didn’t have any internal bleeds,” Robert explains.

“Oh, and I’m guessing that, since I’m not in surgery, I’m okay?” I ask with a grin.

“All they found was a giant ego, and they said there’s nothing they can do about that,” Robert says with a lopsided smile, and Joey and I chuckle. “Okay, you two go out and have fun. I’ve got work to do,” Robert says as he heads off toward the nurse’s station.

“Did you see Danny while you were in the infirmary?” Joey asks as we sit down on the couch nearest the window.

“Yeah,” I reply.

“Well?”

“He was just staring out the window,” I say with a wince.

“Oh,” Joey says, sounding disappointed.

“I don’t know if anything has changed since Robert told me this, but he said that Danny’s refusing to eat or talk to anyone,” I tell Joey in a hushed voice.

“I know he’s a jerk, but I still feel bad for the guy,” Joey says softly as he looks down at his book, traces the embossed words on the cover with a finger.

“Yeah, same here,” I tell him.

Joey tosses the book on the table in front of us, then settles his back against the armrest, pulls his legs up against his chest. “You never got a turn that day we were talking about pets. Did you ever have a pet when you were growing up?” he asks.

I slide down into the couch until my head hits the back of it, sprawl out as per normal. “Nope, Dad always said we moved too much to be able to take care of a pet,” I tell him.

“I had rats,” Joey says with a smile.

“Oh, ugh, rats?” I say with a sour look on my face.

Joey chuckles at my exaggerated reaction. “I take it you don’t like rats,” he says with a smile.

“That’s putting it mildly,” I say with a shiver.

“You’re scared of them!” Joey points at me and nearly screams with excitement.

“Well, you don’t have to tell everyone, but yeah, so, I’m a little scared of them,” I say much quieter than Joey’s little outburst.

Joey laughs again. “I had two of them. They were big with black fur,” he says as if he knows this is grossing me out.

I squirm a little. “You left them in their cages, right?” I ask with a frown.

Joey smiles as he shakes his head no. “I took them out all the time. They loved being petted,” he tells me, watches for my reaction.

I moan with another sour expression. “I’m glad we never got to have pets. Sam would’ve probably wanted a rat,” I say grumpily.

I see Joey look toward the nurse’s station, and I turn to see Robert walk up to us. “I’d like you to eat lunch today, Dean,” he says when he stops in front of the couch.

“Okay,” I say with a shrug of my shoulders.

“If you throw up after eating, I want you to tell me, okay?”

I shake my head no. “I don’t like what happens when you find out I’ve thrown up,” I grumble.

Robert smiles at that. “I want you to tell me because of the head wound. If you’re throwing up, it could be a sign of something going on in your head,” Robert explains.

“Oh, okay, then I guess I’ll tell you,” I give.

“Did you eat yet, Joey?” Robert asks.

Joey winces. “I was waiting for Dean,” he says, obviously lying.

“Eat lunch,” Robert orders him.

“You got it, man,” Joey says as he stands up, offers me a hand up.

Joey and I each get our tray, take an open table. It’s almost empty since it’s so late in the lunch hour.

“How old are you, if you don’t mind my asking,” I ask Joey as we start in on our lunch.

“Twenty,” Joey says with a mouthful of his sandwich.

“You look younger,” I say as I ball up my wrapper.

“I had just turned eighteen when I killed Mom, so I was getting ready to be tried as an adult, and just happened to be old enough to be put in with the rest of the guys here,” he tells me.

“Again, if you don’t mind--”

“You can ask me anything,” Joey interrupts me. “The only thing I didn’t want you to know about was the cutting, and since you know now, it doesn’t matter.”

I chuckle. “That’s actually what I was going to ask you about. How old were you when you started cutting?” I ask.

“I’m not really sure,” he says. “I think I was around seven, but it could have been earlier, and I just don’t remember it.”

“Seven?” I ask, surprised.

Joey chuckles. “I remember pulling some glass out of the garbage can to look at it. It cut me, and I was amazed by how the blood looked running down the glass. So I started cutting myself on purpose to see it some more,” he tells me.

“What did your mom do when she found out?” I ask with a wince.

“She didn’t,” he says with a grin.

“How’d you pull that one off?”

“After the first cut, I did it on my knees, and it looked like I fell in the rocks, which is exactly what I told her,” Joey explains.

“Did she ever find out?” I ask him.

Joey shakes his head no. “She never confronted me about it, but I think she knew,” he tells me.

“What do you think you would have done if she had confronted you?”

Joey shrugs his shoulders. “We probably would’ve ended up fighting about it.” Joey eats a few more bites of his sandwich. “Do you remember your mom at all?” he asks me.

“Kind of,” I say.

“I was just wondering because I can’t remember my dad at all, but you were twice my age by the time your mom died, so you might remember her more than I remembered my dad,” he says without taking a breath.

“I remember she had blonde hair that I used to run my fingers through. She was pretty. She used to sing to us,” I say. Then a memory hits me, and I chuckle.

“What?” Joey asks.

“I just remembered that Mom was the one to potty train me, and she would throw a few Cheerios in the water, tell me to aim for them,” I say with a bit of a blush.

“That’s really cute,” Joey says with a smile.

“I’d actually forgotten about that until just now,” I tell Joey.

“Cool,” he says. “Did your dad use that method to get Sam toilet trained?”

I shake my head no. “Sam toilet trained himself. He saw us using it, and one day he decided that he wanted to use it, and so he just did,” I say with a shrug.

“Cute,” Joey says, an adorable look on his face that makes me glad I thought of it. “I wet the bed until I was six,” Joey grumbles as he tosses one third of his sandwich down onto the tray uneaten. “But that’s okay. My mom told me that my dad wet his bed until he was fourteen!”

“Oh, man, that sucks,” I say with a wince.

“Yeah, that’s just disturbing is what that is,” Joey says with a chuckle. “Well, are you queasy yet?”

“Nope,” I reply. “At least no more than usual,” I say with a smile.

“Good. I hate it when Robert has to shove stuff up your ass,” Joey says with a lopsided grin.

“Oh, ha, ha,” I say smartly. “You just wait. One of these days he’ll hold you down on the bed and shove suppository so far up your ass you think it’s going to come out your throat, and then we’ll see who’s laughing,” I tell him with a grin of my own.

“Big baby,” Joey taunts as he gets up, takes both of our trays over to the cart.

 

**TUESDAY – WEEK 3**

They’re getting worse. It feels like the nightmares are just coming one right after another now. I’m so tired, I feel like I haven’t even slept. I can’t remember ever feeling so bad in my life. Thankfully I don’t wake up crying to every one of them, but I’m pretty much guaranteed to wake up sticky with sweat-chilled skin.

I roll out of bed, grab a new set of scrubs, head for the shower room. I check my schedule for the day, groan when I see that I’ve got an appointment with Jim in less than a half hour. That means I can’t stand under the shower for forty-five minutes like I’ve been doing in the morning. Nobody’s said anything so far, so I assume it’s not a big issue around here.

“It still sounds like bullshit, and I don’t like it, but I’m warming to the stages-of-grieving idea,” I say as I sit across the coffee table from Jim.

Jim smiles at me. “I know a lot of this stuff is hard to take in, but I appreciate that you listen, and that you answer me honestly,” he tells me sincerely. “Did you try any of the relaxation techniques?”

I nod. “Yeah, but the nightmares are getting worse,” I grumble.

“How so?” he asks.

“Well, before I would have one or two big ones a night, but now they just seem to be constant throughout the entire night. I’m waking up drenched in sweat every fucking morning,” I say tiredly as I rub my eyes.

“Robert’s going to notice soon, you know. I can see from here that you’re overtired,” Jim says, sounding concerned.

“I think both he and Greg already know, they just don’t want to see me go on the tranquilizers again,” I say with a shrug.

“My knowledge of medications only goes so far, but I do know that people get used to tranquilizers, and they lose their initially-strong effect over time,” Jim tells me.

“I really don’t give a fuck,” I say, then yawn. “I’m not taking them,” I say, sounding so tired that the bite is gone from my words.

Jim lets it go. “Any new nightmares?” he asks instead of pushing it further.

I shake my head no. “Those same two on repeat most of the time, but there are others,” I tell him.

“And you can’t remember them?” Jim asks.

“I remember bits and pieces of them. I think they’re mostly old jobs gone wrong, and either Sam or Dad gets killed in them,” I say as I lean my head back on the couch, close my eyes, wrap my arms around my stomach.

“Did you and your brother ever have a service for your father?” Jim asks.

“Part of why I’m in here, doc,” I say with a grin.

“What did you do with your father after you took him from the morgue?” he asks.

“Sam and I salted and burned him, said goodbye in our own way,” I say softly, the little bit of cockiness I had going for me suddenly disappearing from my voice.

“Good,” Jim says.

I sit up and look at him. “Huh?”

“It’s good that you had that opportunity. People who aren’t able to say some form of goodbye to their loved one find it even harder to get through the grieving process,” Jim tells me.

“Okay, so you’re going back to the grieving thing again. What do I do since I’m stuck in between one and two?” I ask him.

“There are some basic guidelines that I can tell you, but I want you to know that this isn’t going to be a quick fix,” Jim warns me.

I let out a sigh. “Yeah, I’m seeing that,” I say with a wince.

“Okay, the first thing is to be patient with yourself. This is a big deal, and it’s going to take a lot out of you,” Jim tells me. “And I know you’re not going to want to hear this, but you’re going to need to talk about it,” Jim says.

“But that...,” I trail off as I focus on his stupid plant.

“That hurts? I know it does,” Jim says to me.

“I’m so fucking tired, and I’m so sick of crying,” I complain, bordering on a whine.

“Just remember that it’s the hormones, the brain chemicals, and the fatigue that are making up a big part of how emotional you are. Yes, dealing with death is a big deal, and you’re going to cry about it, but what you’ve been doing lately is completely draining yourself,” Jim explains.

“I don’t want to cry anymore,” I say, definitely whining this time.

“You’re not just grieving a lost person, you’re letting go of an integral part of yourself that was a large part of who you are,” Jim says.

The backs of my eyes start to prickle. I let out a groan, lean my head back again. I hate this. This all should be much easier than it is.

“This is all going to take time, Dean. And nobody can tell you when or how to feel the things you’re going through. You’re going to have to open up and talk to someone that you feel comfortable with. And if that isn’t me, that’s okay. But find someone. If you find yourself able to talk to your brother, that’s wonderful. If not, that’s okay, too. Don’t ever let anybody tell you how to feel, and don’t let anybody tell you it’s about time to get over this, because it’s different for everybody,” Jim tells me.

“How will I know when I’ve gotten over it?” I ask.

“You’re never going to be the same as you were before your father died. It just isn’t going to happen. What will happen, though, is you’ll start to feel different. You’ll start to feel that you can finally get back to being yourself,” Jim explains. He lets that sink in for a moment. “It’s not going to help if you blame yourself for his death, either,” Jim says softly.

My eyes snap to his. “But it was my fault,” I nearly yell at him. Where did that come from?

Jim shakes his head no. “Your father made a choice, Dean. It wasn’t up to you,” he says.

My stomach clenches. “But he would be here if it weren’t for me,” I growl, my throat hurting, chest feeling tight.

“It was his choice,” Jim says with a shrug as if it’s that easy. “He loved you, and he made a choice based on information he had at the time that you may not even know about,” Jim tells me.

“It was the wrong choice,” I growl again, my throat too tight to speak normally.

“Not in his eyes,” Jim says.

“It was the wrong choice!” I yell at him. My eyes are burning badly enough that it’s getting hard to see Jim.

“But it wasn’t yours,” Jim says just as calmly as he has everything else.

“That fucking bastard left me here without him!” I yell again, my voice breaking on the last word, and my fucking bottom lip trembling. “He left me here with this huge fucking responsibility that I never asked for with the guilt of knowing that I’m the reason that he’s in Hell!” I continue yelling, tears running down my cheeks.

Jim shakes his head no again. “It’s not your fault. It wasn’t your choice. That one’s all on him, Dean,” Jim says.

A sob breaks free from my throat. “But--”

“Wouldn’t you have done the same thing had the tables been turned? Would you do the same thing for Sam?” he asks me.

I shake my head no. “He shouldn’t have done it,” I say, my voice getting weaker. I angrily wipe the tears from my face, but more just come streaming down anyway.

“You meant everything to him, and he did what he thought was the right thing to do, which was saving you at the cost of his own life. Ask any parent, and they would do the same thing,” Jim says.

I cover my face with my hands as another sob breaks free. “It was the wrong choice,” I insist. A stupid keening noise comes from my throat followed by a sob. “He shouldn’t have done it,” I say with a ragged voice.

“It’s out of your hands now. All you can do is grieve for your father and try to move on with your life,” Jim says loud enough for me to hear over my crying.

“And now I’ve fucked up, gotten thrown in this shithole where I can’t even do the one thing Dad asked of me. I can’t save Sam,” I say through my hands as I begin to cry even harder.

“It’s not your fault. You’ve done the best you could do, but things have happened that are out of your control,” Jim says reasonably.

I let out a frustrated growl. “I should’ve--”

“You’re only human. There’s only so much you can do,” Jim interrupts to tell me.

“He shouldn’t have left me. He shouldn’t have left Sam. I can’t do this anymore,” I say as I press harder on my eyes, trying to get the tears to stop.

I hear Jim get off the couch, but I’m too busy trying to keep the tears where they’re supposed to stay to pay much attention. The couch suddenly dips on my right side, and then there’s an arm around my shoulders pulling me closer to warmth, and I go with it. I curl into Jim’s side, rest my head on his shoulder, and let myself cry some more.

It seems like forever that we sit there with Jim slowly rubbing his fingers over my left shoulder, me crying into his chest. It feels so good, and I don’t want it to end. But then I start feeling a bit ridiculous, and I tense up.

“There’s nothing to be ashamed of,” Jim says. “You needed this, so relax,” he tells me.

“Yes, sir,” I say, then sniffle.

We sit there for a while longer as I slowly calm down from crying so hard. The hiccups and sniffling finally lessen. I start to drift off when Jim gently sits me up. “Why don’t we get you back to your room for a nap?” he asks as he stands up, holds a hand out for me.

I shake my head no. “Robert doesn’t let me take naps in my room,” I say as I let Jim pull me up.

“He will if I tell him to let you,” Jim says with a grin.

I chuckle with what feels like a completely raw throat, and the sound that comes out is more like a cough. “Cool,” I say as I head out the door.

“Dean,” I hear Joey say, and I crack open my eyes just a bit to look up at him from my comfortable cocoon I’ve made for myself in bed. “Hey, man, it’s time to get up,” he says.

“How long was I out?” I mumble.

“Two hours,” Joey tells me. “Robert told me to get you up and take you to lunch.”

“Not hungry,” I moan as I pull the pillow over my head.

Joey laughs. “Don’t start that. That never leads to anything but much badness,” he says as he takes the pillow from me, holds it against his chest like I’m going to take it back.

I kick and struggle with the blanket for a while as I get untangled. I slowly slide off the bed, get my slippers on, and walk into the hallway. Joey catches up to me.

“If I’m being too nosey or into your shit, just tell me to fuck off, okay?” Joey asks as we get to the nurse’s station.

I give Robert a wave. “You can ask me anything you want to, kid,” I offer.

We each grab a tray, sit down, get comfortable. Joey looks at me for a moment as if trying to gather his thoughts. “Are they getting worse? The nightmares?” he asks me.

I nod as I stab at the chicken salad. “I don’t know what the deal is, but yes, they’re getting worse by the night,” I tell him.

“I know pretty much everybody here has nightmares, but yours seem to be so much worse. You look like shit,” he says with a concerned look on his face.

I shrug. “I don’t know what to tell you,” I say tiredly.

“Well, I was thinking about it last night after you woke me up,” he starts.

I wince. “Sorry,” I tell him.

“It’s not a big deal,” Joey says with a wave like it’s nothing. “Anyway, I was thinking about this kid that I knew when I was in maybe third or fourth grade. The kid had nightmares so bad that he would hurt himself and his sister in the middle of the night,” Joey tells me.

“Wow,” I say as I look up at him, interested.

“Yeah, it was bad. The kid would be screaming every night, waking up the whole house,” he says.

“What happened?” I ask.

“It got so bad that they took him to a doctor, and the doctor not only put him on medication for it, but he also sent him to some kind of psych doctor. I’m not sure now what kind of psych doctor it was, though, but they got it under control after a while. The only reason I mention it is because they diagnosed him as having night terrors instead of nightmares,” Joey explains.

“What’s the difference?” I ask him.

Joey shrugs. “I really don’t know, but you might want to ask either Jim or Richards about it. They probably know more about that kind of thing,” Joey tells me.

“I’ll ask Jim,” I tell him.

“I just thought it might help,” Joey says.

“Thanks, man,” I say with a smile. “I’ll take anything I can get. I actually fell out of bed last night because of a nightmare,” I admit.

Joey laughs, then quickly covers his mouth. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t laugh at you,” he says with a panic-stricken look on his face.

I chuckle. “It’s okay,” I tell him with a smile. “Do any of the other guys wake you up at night?” I ask.

“Every once in a while someone will, but not usually. There used to be a patient here named Kevin. Kevin pretty much yelled all the time, but he would scream at night like someone was killing him,” Joey tells me.

“What happened to him?” I ask him.

“He killed himself the same way Danny tried to,” Joey says with a wince.

I groan as I poke at my salad some more. “Did Danny have a lot of nightmares?”

“When he first came here he didn’t, but then closer to the time where he cut himself, he started in with the screaming at night,” Joey tells me.

“So, basically you’re telling me to stay away from the razors?” I ask with a lopsided grin.

“Just a little bit,” Joey says.

 

**WEDNESDAY – WEEK 3**

“No!” I scream as I sit up in bed. The nightmare wasn’t that horrible, but it was enough to wake me suddenly. I look up at the clock to see it’s still Wednesday. Thursday is only thirty-two minutes away.

I lie back down, turn onto my right side so that, if somebody looks in through the window, they won’t see me awake. 

“Oh, fuck,” I grumble as I see Dad sitting on top of my dresser. He’s in scrubs, too, and he’s just looking at me with a soft smile. I didn’t take any new medication, but this must be a hallucination. Maybe they gave me something new, and I didn’t notice. I need to pay more attention to what’s in those cups.

“Hey, Dean,” Dad says.

“Hey, Dad,” I reply as I close my eyes.

“You sure got yourself into a mess this time, didn’t you, son?” Dad asks.

“Sam’s going to get me out,” I tell him nonchalantly even though I know none of this is real.

Dad lets out a sigh. “I told you last time that Sam is dead, baby,” he says.

“Well, ask him to visit me, too, would you?” I ask of him, tired voice.

Dad chuckles. “I know you think I’m not real, but I’m going to show you that I’m as real as can be,” he tells me, and I hear him slide down from the dresser.

“Okay, you’re real,” I mumble as I kick the covers to the floor. I always get hot in the middle of the night here, especially with all the nightmares.

The end of the bed dips, so I open my eyes and turn onto my back, watching as Dad crawls up toward me on his hands and knees.

“What are you doing?” I ask, getting a little flutter of nervousness in my stomach.

Dad doesn’t say anything. He crawls between my legs until he can’t go any further, my legs stretched around him. He leans over me, his hands on either side of my head so that we’re face to face.

I start to breathe heavier. “What are you doing?” I ask again, only this time it’s a whisper.

“Showing you how real I am,” he says softly, then leans in until his lips are barely touching my left ear. "I could kill you right here, right now, and nobody would ever know what happened. They'd just find you in the morning, dead and cold."

I gasp, try to pull back, but I’m already against the pillow. He leans back, and I stare up at him with wide eyes. “I-”

Dad shushes me, patting my belly. “It’s okay, baby,” he says as he chuckles.

I start to panic, to pant. Something's really off. More than just the fact that my dad, who is currently dead, is apparently visiting me from Hell. "I don't know what you want, but I've had about enough of this," I say as I reach up and push against his chest with both hands. He doesn’t budge. He doesn’t even seem to notice that I’m pushing.

“It’s all going to be okay,” he reassures me, voice patronizing in a way Dad only used when he was dealing with really traumatized victims when we were hunting.

I squeeze my eyes shut. “This isn’t real. This isn’t real,” I say, hoping that my brain will get it and stop this shit. Then I let out a scream as Dad pinches my left inner thigh so hard that I wonder if he’s taken the skin with him.

“It’s real if it hurts,” Dad tells me with a grin on his face.

“Oh, fuck! It’s real! It’s fucking real!” I say as I enter into full panic mode. I don’t know how, but this is fucking real. Dad’s out of Hell. He’s come for me. I have to get out of this. I push the thumb of my left hand into Dad’s trachea as I grab onto his hair with my right hand, trying to hold him in place.

Dad laughs at me. “You can’t hurt me, but I can hurt you,” he tells me, and his voice isn’t affected by what I’m doing to his throat in the least. He sits back, effortlessly pulling himself out of my hold, and a grin spreads over his face. "I've learned a few tricks down below," he says as he reaches behind his back with his right hand, pulling something out of the back of his jeans.

My eyes widen when I see a fucking huge hunting knife in his hand. "What the fuck are you doing?" I ask, not nearly as aggressive as I'd like to sound.

“Calm down, kid,” Dad soothes, tapping the flat of the knife on my stomach.

Even through my thin shirt, I can feel the cold steel. "Why are you doing this?" I ask, voice barely a whisper.

"You need to learn," Dad says, shrugging. "I taught you everything you know, but do you know how to fight off something that's been in Hell as long as I have?"

"We do all right," I say, nodding.

Dad snorts. "So naive," he says, then lunges forward.

I gasp as his left hand goes around my throat and suddenly the knife's point is touching the vulnerable skin of my left cheek, just below my eye. “Dad, stop. Please, just stop,” I say, voice breaking. I’m so scared that tears are starting to run into my hair. My whole body is shaking.

Dad lets the tip of the knife slide over my cheek, my forehead, then down my nose before tapping on my bottom lip. "I did it for you, you know. I went to Hell so you could stay up top and watch Sam."

"I am," I say, my hands balled into fists at my sides.

"Are you really?" Dad asks. "Because from what I've seen he's dabbling in things he really shouldn't be. And that kinda makes you a shitty big brother."

My bottom lip wobbles. I know I haven't really done what he asked me to do. Sam scares the shit out of me sometimes, but there's something else, something deep inside me that says we can handle it. We can handle whatever life throws at us, and we'll make it.

"I thought so," Dad says, nodding as the tip of the knife runs back and forth over my bottom lip. One wrong move and he could do a lot of damage. "If you're not going to take care of the problem, maybe I need to pay a visit to Sammy myself."

My bottom lip trembles as I look into his eyes. He means it. He’s not bluffing. “Dad, please,” I whisper. "Don't. Don't hurt him. We've got it. I'm watching him, and he's doing okay. I can-"

"You're stuck in here," Dad says, interrupting me. "And you can stop him from going darkside any more than you can stop me from dragging him back to Hell with me," he says with a wicked grin.

I can’t help it. I totally lose it. I use what seems like every muscle in my body to fight against him. I kick out with my legs, arch my back off of the bed, and shove at him with both hands as hard as I can, screaming louder than I've ever screamed before. I don't care if the knife does anything to me, and I'm beyond caring if someone hears me and comes running. He's not touching my brother.

The fucker lets me run out of steam, and soon I'm panting, shivering, and blinking up at him. He's still there, smirking at me, and my little display didn't do a damn thing.

"You're not going anywhere,” he says, "and if you feel that strongly about it, then I guess I'll just have to show you what's going to happen to little Sammy."

I flinch as he drops the knife onto the floor, the sound loud in the small room, and then I'm screaming in terror, because what's sitting between my legs no longer looks like my father. There's nothing human about it. I can't even focus because my brain just isn't keeping up with whatever it is I'm seeing. There's tentacles, swirling masses, gore, quivering flesh, black eyes that see right through me, and the stench of rot fills my nose.

I can't stop screaming. I can't move. I can't think. All I can do is lie there screaming my head off while this thing sits there, not doing anything to me other than scaring the shit out of me, and I know it's Dad. Even as unrecognizable as it is, I know it's Dad.

Then Dad’s suddenly gone, and I notice I’m not lying on my bed anymore, but I’m on cold steel. I stop screaming and look around, finding myself in the steel box again. That was a fucking dream. A dream, and it felt that real.

I shakily stand up, noticing that not only am I seeing this dream through my own eyes, but I’m cold and shivering and my pants are wet. I wipe the tears from my eyes just in time to jump out of the way of a flame coming from the floor.

 

**THURSDAY – WEEK 3**

“You okay, Dean?” Robert asks as he walks into my room.

I lift my head from my knees to look up at him with sore eyes. I’m on the very end of my bed with my knees tucked up against my chest, the pants material a little wet where my tears have stained them.

“Dean?” he asks again.

Even though I’ve been tearing for the last hour or so in this position, I manage to let a sob out when I hear the concern in Robert’s voice. More tears start to come, and my bottom lip trembles.

“What happened?” he asks.

I let out a very unmanly squeak. I’m shaking. “I pissed myself,” I say with a ragged voice.

“It’s okay, Dean,” Robert assures me. “Come here,” he says as he gestures for me to stand up. I shake my head no. Robert nods. “Yeah, come here,” he says again.

I slowly slide to the edge of the bed, and Robert takes me by the right upper arm, helps me up.

“It’s okay,” he says again. “You’re not in trouble, and nobody’s going to make fun of you,” Robert tells me. He wraps his arm around my shoulders and pulls me to him. “I know you’re probably scared, and you probably feel stupid about this, but I want you to calm down. It’s going to be okay,” he assures me again.

I wipe the tears from my face, already feeling a little bit better in Robert’s arms. “I’m sorry,” I whisper.

“No problem. Get some fresh scrubs out of your dresser, then go ahead and take a shower. I’ll take care of your bed,” Robert says.

“Okay,” I say, probably sounding horribly pathetic.

“We’re going to want to get a urine sample from you, so don’t piss while you’re in the shower room,” Robert says as I make it to the doorway.

I turn around, panicked look on my face. “Are you going to take me to Dan?” I ask.

“We’re just going to get you a quick checkup to see that everything’s okay,” he tells me.

I start to walk back into the room. “Robert--”

“Go take your shower,” Robert cuts me off, says it with a bit of an authoritative tone to his voice.

“But...,” I start, but he just turns to me, raises his eyebrow. “Yes, sir,” I mumble as I turn away.

Robert’s waiting for me outside the shower room when I come out. “Ready?” he asks with a smile. I shake my head no. Robert chuckles. “You’re going to be fine,” he says as he gets a hold on my left upper arm, and pulls me toward the infirmary.

I try to stay where I am, but he pulls hard enough that I have to either go or fall. “But I don’t want to go,” I whine as I catch up to his longer stride.

“Hey, what are you two doing here this morning?” Dan asks as we walk through the door.

I suddenly realize that, in order to get Dan’s help, he’s going to have to know that I pissed myself. I turn to Robert with widened eyes. “Don’t tell him,” I hiss.

Robert turns me to him, looks down at me. “We have to tell him,” he whispers so that Dan can’t hear him. “We have to make sure that there’s nothing we need to treat. There are lots of reasons why that could have happened,” Robert says.

“Like what?” I ask with a wince.

Robert puts his hand on the back of my neck, physically pushes me toward the first bed on the right. I look for Danny, see that he’s in the same position I saw him a few days ago. It makes my stomach hurt. Then I see the doctor putting his gloves on, and my stomach hurts for a completely different reason.

“What seems to be the problem?” Dan asks as he walks over to us.

“Dean had a bit of nocturnal enuresis,” Robert says to the doctor.

“Ah, okay, then go ahead and change out of your scrubs, and then have a seat on the bed,” the doctor instructs.

I make a whining noise as I give Robert a look that probably ends up being totally pathetic. Robert and Dan close the curtains around the bed, and then Robert walks up to me, starts taking my shirt off. I put my arms up, let him take it off. I kick off the slippers, take the pants off, and get up on the bed.

Dan walks up to me. “Was it the full bladder, or was it just a little bit,” he asks me.

I can feel my face heating up. This is so embarrassing. “It was the whole thing,” I say with a wince. Can I leave yet?

“Did you get a urine sample from him yet?” Dan asks Robert.

“No,” he replies.

“Have you had any pain when you urinate or redness at the end of your penis?” Dan asks me.

“No, sir,” I say.

“Go ahead and lie down on the bed for me,” he tells me. “Where did you get this?” he asks as he points to my leg.

I look down, and a chill goes down my spine as I see a quarter-sized bruise on my left inner thigh, right where Dad pinched me in my dream. “I, um, ran into my bedside table,” I lie quickly.

“Was this before or after you wet the bed?” he asks.

“After,” I tell him so he doesn’t think it’s related.

“Okay, then go ahead and lie back down.” I do as he says, and he starts pushing in and feeling my stomach. “Do you have any diabetes in your family?”

“Not that I know of,” I reply.

“Have you ever had surgery on your urinary tract before?” he asks me.

“No,” I reply, pretty sure that Dad would have at least mentioned that if I had.

“Now I need you to be honest with me,” he says as he stops what he’s doing, looks me in the eye. “Have you had any sexual contact with anyone since you came here?” he asks me.

“No, sir,” I say with a shake of my head.

“It’s not going to help you any if you lie to me,” Dan comments.

“I’m not lying,” I tell him.

“Okay, then, Robert, would you get me an STD swab kit and a specimen cup?” Dan requests.

“But I’m not lying,” I say with widened eyes. I remember the swab, and I don’t want to do that again.

“I believe you, but there are things that might not have shown up on the first test I did. I’m just covering all the bases, Dean,” Dan tells me.

I groan as I throw my right arm over my eyes. I don’t want to have to see this. I hear Robert come back, hand the things to the doctor.

“I know this is uncomfortable, but just hold still. It only takes a couple seconds,” Dan assures me.

I wince as I feel that fucking swab go into me, swirl around. I so don’t ever want an STD. This does not feel good at all. Robert comes up to my right side, puts his hand on my shoulder, gives me a little squeeze before just resting his hand there.

“Do you have any problems with constipation?” Dan asks as he goes back to feeling my stomach.

“No, sir,” I reply.

“You’ve never felt any bulges in the groin area, have you?” he asks.

“No,” I say as I feel him start to run his fingers down the creases where thigh meets groin on both sides.

“Have you had any recent trauma to your groin area, gotten in a fight?” he asks me.

“Well, I was in a fight, but he didn’t knee me, if that’s what you mean,” I tell him.

“Did you get punched in the stomach?” Dan asks, still poking and prodding me.

“No, just the face,” I say with a nervous chuckle.

“Okay, then go ahead and sit up for me,” Dan instructs. “If you don’t mind,” he says as he hands me the specimen cup.

“Fuck,” I growl as I take it from him.

“Something wrong?” he asks.

I blush. “I don’t suppose you’d be able to leave me alone in here for a few minutes, would you?” I ask with a wince.

“I’m sorry, but I need to know that it’s yours,” Dan says.

“Just outside the curtain?” I ask hopefully.

Dan shakes his head no. “No, I can’t,” he tells me.

I let out a whine. “But I can’t go unless I’m alone,” I tell him.

Dan turns to Robert. “Can you get a catheter kit for me?” he asks.

“No!” I say with wide eyes. I take the top off the specimen cup with shaky hands. “Don’t do the catheter thing!” I say as I grab my dick, hold it over the cup.

I try to relax, but it doesn’t come. I set the top on the bed next to me, then push over my bladder the way that Greg did last time. Nothing happens. I start to panic as Robert comes back with the kit.

“No! Please don’t use the catheter,” I beg. “All you have to do is stand just outside the curtain. I swear I won’t put anybody else’s piss in here but mine,” I assure the doctor, getting desperate.

Dan takes the cup from me, picks up the top from the bed. “Lie down on the bed, Dean,” he says as he sets the cup and top on the table next to the bed.

“No!” I say again as I shake my head. “Just--”

“Dean,” Robert cuts me off, raises his eyebrow at me. 

“Can I try again? Let me try again,” I ask of them.

“Try standing up this time,” Dan suggests as he hands the cup back to me.

I take the cup back, stand up, try again. I stand there for what seems like forever, but nothing happens.

“Relax,” Robert says softly. “Let your shoulders drop, take a deep breath, and then try and let it out along with your breath,” he instructs me. I do as he says, but nothing happens. “Try one more time, and then we’ll do the catheter,” he tells me.

I take a really deep breath, then let my shoulders relax as I let the breath out slowly, close my eyes, and I piss. I try not to get so excited I spill anything, but can’t help the big smile on my face. I’m able to fill half the cup before my shy bladder decides that’s all it can give. “Is that enough?” I ask Dan, worried that it’s not enough.

“That’s all we need,” he says with a smile as he takes the cup from me, puts the lid on, hands it to Robert along with the STD swab. “Go ahead and get your scrubs back on,” Dan tells me as he points to my clothes.

“That’s all you’re going to do to me?” I ask, relieved.

“Unless you’d like me to do a rectal exam,” Dan says with a shrug and a grin.

“No, that’s okay,” I say quickly as I pull on my scrubs.

Robert opens the curtains. “Let’s get out of here. You’re already five minutes late for your appointment with Jim,” he says.

“See you boys soon,” Dan says as we leave, and I cringe at the thought.

“You okay?” Robert asks as we get about halfway to Jim’s office, me quiet the whole way.

“Have I told you I don’t like doctors?” I ask.

“I’m sorry we had to do that, but we just need to cover all the bases,” Robert says, sounding sincere.

“I know, but I don’t have to like it,” I grumble.

Just past the nurse’s station, Robert grabs me by the upper arm, stops the both of us just out of earshot of the common area. “Are you talking to Jim about your nightmares?” he asks me quietly.

“Yeah,” I say with a nod.

He puts his left hand on my shoulder. “Talk to him about what happened this morning, okay?” he asks me.

I look down at his shirt. “How many more people do I have to tell I pissed myself?” I ask grumpily.

Robert lifts my chin with a finger. “I know it was because of a nightmare, and I want you to tell him about it,” Robert tells me.

I instantly bristle. “You knew, and you still made me go through what I just went through with Dan?” I growl.

“I had to do that,” Robert says.

“Why?” I ask through gritted teeth.

“I was concerned for your health, and if I would have ignored that, I could have gotten in deep trouble,” Robert explains.

I don’t want Robert to get in trouble. I calm down a bit. “All right,” I say.

“Just tell him for me, please?” Robert asks again.

“Fine,” I give.

Robert gives me a smile that lights up his face. “Thank you,” he says softly.

“Yeah, well, don’t get used to me doing what you tell me to do so easily, because it isn’t going to happen like that all the time,” I grumble.

Robert chuckles. “Get to your appointment,” he says with a smile.

“Yes, sir,” I say as I turn and walk down the hallway.

“Come on in,” Jim says after I knock on his door.

“Sorry I’m late,” I say as I pass him on the way to the couch.

He sits down across from me, sets my file on the couch next to himself. “Problem?” he asks, not sounding mad.

“Kind of,” I say with a wince.

Jim smiles softly. “You don’t have to tell me, but I wish you would. You have a look on your face that says it’s something big,” Jim tells me.

I look down at my knees, wrap my arms around my stomach like it’s going to fix everything that’s wrong. “I had another nightmare last night,” I say dejectedly.

“Was it a new one?” Jim asks, interested, and I nod. He waits for me to continue, but I don’t. “What happened, Dean?” Jim asks, sounding concerned.

“I pissed myself,” I whisper to my knees.

“Was it because of the nightmare?” he asks me, and I nod. “Dean,” Jim says, then waits for me to look up at him. “It’s nothing to be embarrassed about,” he tells me.

I wince at that, look over at the plant. I feel ridiculous. “As if the crying wasn’t enough, now I’m wetting the bed,” I say with a snort.

“You know what that tells me?” Jim asks.

“What?” I ask.

“It tells me that these nightmares are affecting you badly enough to seriously upset you,” he says. “Can you tell me the dream?” he asks, and I shake my head no. Jim leans forward, puts his elbows on his knees. “This is a big one, Dean. I really think that you should tell me about it,” he says.

“I don’t want anybody to know about it, even you,” I say as I look to the bookshelf on my right.

“Well, you know I’m not going to tell anyone, and I’m certainly not going to laugh at you or view you any differently because of it,” Jim assures me.

I promised Robert I would tell. Fine. “I thought I was awake for this one,” I tell him as I finally look at him. “I woke up from a nightmare, turned over, and there was my dad sitting on my dresser, so I thought it was another hallucination.”

“Have they changed your medications again?” Jim asks me.

I shake my head no. “I thought they might have, but I didn’t notice a new pill in the cup. I just kind of went along with it, thinking it was hallucination. I said hi to my dad, and he said hi back,” I explain, but then stop talking. I don’t want to talk about this.

Jim gives me a moment. “What happened, Dean?” he finally asks.

I take a deep breath. “He didn't try to tell me Sam's dead this time. Instead he said he was going to hurt him, that I wasn't taking care of him, so he was going to...," I start, but then look down at my knees again. This is hurting all over again. I don’t like this.

“Just remember that you’re here, and that this is what’s real. Keep the dream in its place while you’re telling it to me,” Jim tells me.

I wince. “He climbed up on the bed, got in between my legs, held me down while he told me I wasn't watching out for Sam, that he's getting into shit he shouldn't be,” I say, then lean my head back on the couch, close my eyes. “He pulled out a knife, and I tried to fight him off, but he was way too strong. When I tried to tell myself he wasn’t real, he pinched the inside of my thigh, and he told me that, if it hurts, it’s real.”

“Did it hurt?” Jim asks.

I nod. “It hurt so bad that I screamed. I panicked, then, because I realized everything was real, that it wasn’t a dream. Then he said he was going to hurt Sam,” I explain to Jim.

“What happened then?” he asks, prodding me along. “Were you still fighting?”

“I tried, especially when he turned into a fucking monster," I say, sitting up and gauging his reaction. "One minute he looks like Dad, the next he's a fucking swirling mass of rotting flesh and black eyes. I can't remember ever being so absolutely terrified. I was so scared that I just started screaming. I knew I wasn’t going to be able to stop him from doing anything to Sam. He was way too strong. But I couldn't stop screaming, couldn't stop fighting, and then suddenly he's just gone and I'm on the floor of the steel box from my other dream,” I say, shaking my head.

“And you think you lost your bladder during this dream?” he asks.

“I must have, because when I woke up, I was wet and I had a bruise on the inside of my thigh where my Dad pinched me in the dream,” I tell him.

Jim leans back into the couch, crosses one leg over the other. “Dean, has your dad ever hurt you or touched you inappropriately?” Jim asks.

“Never,” I say as I shake my head no. “He would never even think of doing anything like that to either of us,” I say with conviction. “That’s why this dream or hallucination or whatever it was just totally blew me away, because he just wouldn’t ever do anything to me,” I tell Jim.

“You’re positive?” he asks, and I nod. “I only ask because, a lot of people who have been hurt in real life but have suppressed it, start to dream about it before they actually remember what really happened,” Jim tells me.

“That’s definitely not what’s happening. You don’t know my dad. He just wouldn’t,” I say strongly, shaking my head no.

“Okay, I just had to make sure,” Jim says, and I nod in understanding. “Your dream could also mean that you’re feeling helpless, that someone is jeopardizing your self-esteem or your emotional well-being,” he tells me. “And it doesn’t even have to be your father.”

“What if I feel that way about everybody around me?” I ask with a lopsided smile.

Jim nods. “You took the words right out of my mouth, actually,” he says with a grin. “You’re in a strange place, and you’re being told what to do, when to do it. You’re being made to share things that you really don’t want to share. You’re even being touched when you don’t want to be,” Jim explains.

I shake my head no. “I don’t think this is about Jerry,” I tell him.

“I didn’t mean just Jerry,” he says with a shake of his head. “You’re terrified of doctors, and yet you’ve had a full physical, and you’ve also had stitches put in just the other day by a doctor.”

“And I got a mini-physical as soon as Robert found out that I wet the bed,” I grumble.

“See, now you’re having all of this shit thrown at you constantly. Of course you’re going to dream it,” Jim tells me.

“So what do I do?” I ask.

“I’m sorry to have to tell you this, but you’re going to have to learn to calm yourself down, to accept everything around here,” Jim tells me.

I let out a groan as I let my head drop to the back of the couch. “That’s your advice? Take it up the ass?” I whine, sit up and look at him again.

Jim nods. “You’re the type of person that always needs to be in control of everything all the time. You need to let that go, relax, and let someone else handle things for a while,” Jim explains.

“How the Hell am I supposed to just let everything go when they keep doing things to me that I don’t want done?” I nearly yell at the man.

“Is fighting it going to change anything?” he asks me.

“Fuck, no,” I growl.

Jim sits forward. “Like I said earlier, all you’re doing is draining yourself by fighting everything and getting upset,” Jim says with a shrug. “Everyone here is looking out for your best interests, yet you’ve fought every single thing that’s been done to you from the moment you got here.”

“How is shoving a tube up my nose--”

“Were you eating?” Jim interrupts to ask.

I let out a huff worthy of Sammy. “Well, no, but--”

“So they were attempting to help you,” he says reasonably.

“Well, then how is drugging me nearly unconscious for twenty-four hours helping me?” I ask with a bit of a snarl.

“Were you refusing your medications?” he asks me.

“Yeah, but they didn’t have to knock me out for a whole day because of it,” I growl.

“If they wouldn’t have done that, would you have taken the medication?” Jim asks.

“Hell, no,” I say.

“There’s your answer,” Jim says with a shrug. 

“I don’t want help. I want to be left alone!” I tell him.

Jim shakes his head. “The truth of the matter is that it has been decided you are unfit to care for yourself. You were sent here for help. The only thing that you can do now is accept that help,” Jim explains.

I look down at my knees. “I didn’t ask for this,” I mumble.

“Ask anybody who’s in here, Dean. None of them asked to be here. You’ve got to either make the best of it, or you can fight everything and everyone and end up hurting yourself in the long run,” Jim tells me.

I sulk for a few moments. “This sucks,” I complain.

“It’s really in your best interests, Dean,” Jim says.

“You must hate your job,” I say as I look up at him.

He gets a puzzled look on his face. “Why is that?” he asks.

“You’re constantly telling people shit they don’t want to hear,” I say with a lopsided smile.

Jim chuckles at that. “As a matter of fact, I love my job,” Jim says.

“I figured,” I say with a snort as I roll my eyes.

“I spend my days helping people learn things about themselves that they didn’t know. What could be better than that?” he asks me with a shrug.

“Ridding the world of evil like a superhero?” I ask with a cocky grin.

Jim laughs. “Okay, you win,” he says with a smile. I chuckle. “But in all seriousness, Dean, I really want to see you thrive here. That’s all everybody wants to see. You acclimated yourself extremely quickly to the medications that they gave you, and you talk openly to me. You really are doing quite well,” Jim says.

“Except for the nightmares, bed wetting, and crying,” I grumble.

“All of which can easily be explained by your transition to life here, and to taking medication,” Jim says. “Richards is literally manipulating your hormones and brain chemicals with those medications. That’s not an easy thing to handle,” Jim tells me.

“And he’s not finished, either. He told me yesterday that he wants to change one of the medications already,” I growl.

“I’m sorry about that,” Jim says, sympathetic tone to his voice. “Is it because of the nightmares?”

I shake my head no. “I really don’t think he knows about them yet,” I tell him.

“I know you’re not going to want to hear this from me, and I’ve already said it once, but it’s really not a good idea to lie to Richards,” Jim tells me again.

“I’m not going back on tranquilizers,” I say strongly.

“Okay,” he says with a nod, then looks down at his hands.

“Hey, Jim?”

He looks up at me. “Yeah?”

“Joey said something about this kid he knew when he was younger. The kid had something called night terrors. That isn’t what this is, is it?” I ask him.

Jim shakes his head no. “There are a few differences between nightmares and night terrors. One big difference is that, with night terrors, the person doesn’t remember the dreams at all. They have total amnesia of anything that happens or that they do while asleep,” he tells me.

“Oh,” I say, a little bit disappointed.

“In your case, the treatment wouldn’t really change all that much if you were having night terrors, although we would want to put you on a tranquilizer, because they have been known to suppress the fourth stage of sleep. That’s when the night terrors tend to occur,” he explains.

“Oh,” I say, not as disappointed now that I know treatment requires a tranquilizer.

Jim smiles. “You’re pretty much doing everything you can to help these nightmares besides the tranquilizers,” Jim assures me. “You’re doing good,” he says as he stands up, offers me a hand up. “You just need to chill out a little bit,” he says as I let him help me up.

“Thanks,” I say with a smile as I head out the door.

“See you for group later today,” Jim says as I start to walk down the hallway.

“Okay,” I say with a wave.

I fall asleep to the shitty little movie they play, and I’m awakened by someone nudging my legs.

“Wake up so you can go to bed,” I hear Robert say. It sounds like he’s smiling.

“Can’t you just carry me?” I whine.

“Nope,” he says as he offers me a hand up. “Come over and get your pill, and then you can crash.”

“What are you doing here so late at night?” I ask on the way to the nurse’s station.

“Greg had something going on tonight, and he asked me if I could cover for him until he got here,” Robert explains.

“We just can’t get rid of you, can we?” I ask with a smile.

I walk up to the nurse’s station, but Robert stays on this side of it with me. He pulls my cup out of his right pocket, hands it to me. I can’t quite place the look on his face.

I look down into the cup. “Why doesn’t this look like my normal pill?” I ask, starting to get upset.

Robert moves a little closer, puts his left hand on my right shoulder. “Richards replaced the sleeping pill with a tranquilizer,” he says softly.

I instantly tense, pull out of Robert’s gentle hold. I shake my head no. “I’m not taking a tranquilizer,” I say adamantly as I try to put the cup back into Robert’s pocket.

Robert grabs my wrist, holds my hand with cup out in front of me. “Just try it. It takes a few days to get used to it, but--”

“No,” I say as I pull my wrist out of Robert’s grip. “I’m not taking it.”

“Calm down, Dean. It’s really not that bad,” he tries to tell me.

“What the fuck is not bad about passing out for twenty-four hours straight?” I growl at him.

“This time you’ll be in your own bed, and--”

“Fuck that,” I say as I look him in the eye. “I’m not taking it,” I tell him, this time throwing the cup with the pill in it behind him. Thankfully all the other patients are in their rooms now.

“I really don’t--”

“Then don’t!” I say a little louder.

“Dean, you know what happens when you refuse to take medication,” Robert says, looking like he’s not happy about threatening me.

My jaw drops. I hadn’t thought about that. A whimper comes out of my mouth instead of the words I was ready to say. “No,” I whisper, a panicked feeling starting from the pit of my stomach.

“I’m sorry, but yes,” he says as he walks over and picks up the cup and pill which separated from each other on the trip over Robert’s shoulder. He walks up to me again, holds the cup out to me.

“I can’t!” I whine as I take a step backwards.

“Come on,” Robert cajoles. “It’s not going to be as bad as you remember it. You’ll be in your own bed this time,” he repeats.

I do believe this is the worst set of choices I’ve ever had in my life. I shake my head no again. “I can’t!” I say louder.

“Come on, Dean. Just take the pill, please!” Robert nearly begs me.

My bottom lip trembles a bit now that I fully realize just what position I’m in. “No!” I yell as I back up another step. I can feel myself shaking harder. I feel like I’m going to throw up I’m so upset.

Robert turns to the nurse’s station. “Jason, Dale,” he calls over the desk as he pockets the medication.

“No!” I yell again, then start to take another step backward. This time my slippers start to come off, and I trip. I fall to the floor hard on my ass, letting out a grunt.

Robert is quick. He’s on his knees behind me faster than I can get to my own knees. He shushes me as he wraps his arms around my arms and chest. “Calm down,” he says as he pulls me to him, his mouth next to my right ear.

“Please don’t do this! I don’t want... I can’t do that again!” I say desperately as I try to pull out of his hold. I could get away from him, but I’d have to hurt him, and I don’t want to do that.

The buzzer sounds, and Dale and Jason come out of the door, head toward us. “It’s going to be okay, Dean,” Robert says softly. “Calm down, and don’t fight us.”

I start to pant as I see the two men getting closer to us. “I don’t want to go! Don’t make me go! Don’t leave me alone in there!” I scream. I push myself into Robert as Dale and Jason reach for me as if Robert can save me.

Robert lets go of me. “It’s going to be okay, Dean,” he says again as the two men each grab one of my upper arms.

The men pull me up, and Robert gets up. He starts to walk toward the Pit. “No! You can’t do this! I can’t go in there again! Stop!” I scream as I fight against the grip that the two men have on my arms.

Dale and Jason start dragging me to the Pit right along behind Robert. They don’t seem to care that I’m not walking there myself. I lose both of my slippers somewhere along the way.

“Stop!” I scream again as I get my feet under me, then kick Dale’s left leg out from underneath him. The guy actually has the decency to let go of me before he falls, which makes me feel even worse.

Robert turns, gives me a look as he gives Dale a hand up. “I was being nice, not giving you the shot. Do I need to go get one?” Robert threatens.

“No, but--”

“Then knock it off. It’s not their fault you refused your medication,” Robert says in that same authoritative tone that always gets to me. Robert starts off in the direction of the Pit again, and Jason and Dale follow.

“Robert, I can’t take the tranquilizers!” I yell as we walk into the Pit. “Don’t!” I yell as the men put me on the bed, start to put the restraints on me. “No!” I scream, fighting as hard as I can.

“You’re going to hurt yourself, Dean,” Robert says as he gets everything ready. “Go ahead and put the chest and head straps on this time,” Robert tells Jason.

“No!” I scream, drawing it out. Once all the restraints are in place, I can’t move at all. I start panting even harder, and a whimper makes its way out of my mouth.

“You’re going to hyperventilate if you don’t calm yourself down, Dean,” Robert tells me as he hangs up a bag of clear fluid.

“Don’t leave me alone! Please don’t leave me alone!” I beg Robert as I feel the cold alcohol swab on the inside of my left elbow. I’m so upset and high on adrenaline that I barely even notice when he inserts the needle, tapes it down.

Robert takes a moment from what he’s doing to run his fingers through my hair. “Calm down,” he says again.

My bottom lip starts trembling again, only this time a few tears run into my hair as well. “You can’t leave me,” I whimper.

“Nothing’s going to happen to you. You’re safe here. Just calm yourself down, and try to get some rest,” Robert tells me as he wipes a few tears away with his thumb.

“Did you tell Richards?” I ask, needing to know.

Robert’s shoulders slump a bit. “He asked me outright how you were sleeping, and I’m not going to lie to him,” Robert tells me. I squeeze my eyes closed, feel more tears run down my face. “I’m so sorry that you have to go through this, Dean, but we’re all just trying to make you better,” he says sadly.

“I know,” I whisper, my mouth turning down of its own volition, more tears following the path of the others.

I don’t watch as Robert goes back to putting the medications into my port. I don’t want to see any of this. I just want to go back to my room. Then I feel him pull my pants down a little in the front.

“No! Fuck, no! Don’t do that again! Don’t!” I scream as my eyes fly open. I look down at the catheter tubing in Robert’s hand with wide eyes.

“It’s going in because you need it,” Robert says firmly as he grabs my dick. I squeeze my eyes closed again, let out a whine as I feel the tubing go in. “It’s not that bad, and it’s over pretty quickly,” he says as he works.

“Yes, it is that bad, and no, it’s not over pretty fucking quickly,” I grumble. Robert chuckles as he finishes, pulls my pants back up into place. “Don’t leave!” I nearly scream as I open my eyes to see him step away from the bed. “Please don’t leave, Robert! Please!”

“I’ll stay with you until the drugs kick in, how about that?” he asks as he walks over, takes the head strap off, and then starts running his fingers through my hair again.

I look up at him. “I can’t--”

Robert shushes me. “The drugs will kick in, and then I want you to just go to sleep, okay?” he asks, hands still in my hair.

His touch feels so good that I lean into it. I close my eyes, just enjoy the feeling. I start to feel the effects of the drugs, and I end up falling asleep before Robert even leaves me alone.


	4. Week 4

**FRIDAY – WEEK 4**

“Dean,” I hear someone hiss in my ear. “It’s me. Don’t yell.”

I force my eyes open, and I see my brother’s face hovering over mine. He looks a little panicked, but good otherwise. “Sam?”

“Yeah, but I need you to keep quiet while I get you out of here, okay?” Sam asks of me.

“You’re getting me out of here?” I ask rather loudly, excitement flooding my groggy system.

Sam shushes me, puts a finger to my lips. “You’ve got to stay quiet. I’ll get you out of here, but you’ve got to be quiet,” Sam tells me. I hear the door open, and Sam’s grip on my upper arm tightens until it’s almost painful.

“You couldn’t have come at a worse time, Sam,” Robert whispers as he walks over to my left side where Sam is standing.

“Robert?” Sam asks.

“Yeah, now let me get him unhooked from all this shit so you can get him the Hell out of here,” Robert says as he starts to take the IV out of my left arm. “You’re going to have to watch him constantly for at least the next twenty-four hours,” Robert warns him.

“I know,” Sam says confidently.

“The withdrawal is going to hit him harder than it would without the shit we’ve put into him tonight,” Robert says.

“I know,” Sam replies.

“He’s going to need--”

“I’m ready. I have all the information you gave me, I’ve done research, and I have all the supplies I need. I’m ready,” Sam says with a tone of voice that makes me smile. Sam's confident, ready for the job.

“When I gave you that information, I hadn’t anticipated him being in here,” Robert says, sounding upset as he tapes down a small piece of cotton where he just pulled the needle out of my arm.

“I’m ready,” Sam says again.

I let out a whimper as Robert takes the catheter out, but he’s quick enough and I’m sufficiently drugged to the point where it doesn’t really even feel that bad.

“Let’s get him into the wheelchair,” Sam says, and I hear the soft squeak of rubber as he wheels it over to the bed. Both of them work at getting me out of the restraints, and then they put me in the wheelchair.

“I’m assuming you have a plan for getting out of here,” Robert says, sounding concerned.

“Yeah, I do. Get back to your station so you don’t get caught,” Sam says.

“If you need anything, I want you to text me,” Robert stresses.

“Thanks, Robert,” Sam says, sounding grateful.

“Just take good care of him,” Robert says, and then he’s gone. 

The rest of the trip to the car is a bit of a blur because of the drugs, but I do see a few people lying on the floor on our way out. I’m assuming they’re still alive, but can’t focus on one of them long enough to see a rise and fall of the chest. We get to the car, and I wake up as Sam struggles to get me into the back seat with almost no help from me.

“Sorry,” I moan.

“It’s okay, Dean,” Sam says as he finally gets me in the position he wants me in. “Go to sleep,” he tells me, and I almost instantly fall asleep.

 

**SATURDAY – WEEK 4**

I groan as I slowly regain consciousness and instantly feel a burning pressure-like pain in my pelvic area. I turn onto my left side to see that I’m not only sleeping at the wrong end of my own bed, but I’m also looking at the other bed in a hotel room which Sam is sitting on.

Sam slides over to the edge of the bed closest to me. “How are you feeling?” he asks me.

I wince. “I have to piss really, really bad,” I say with a bit of a slur.

“Okay, let me help you,” Sam says as he stands up.

“I’ve got it,” I say as I slide to the edge of the bed, sit up.

“I want to help,” Sam says as he bends over, tries to grab at me.

I push at him with my left hand, and he takes a step backward, obviously expecting me to refuse help. “I’ve got it, Sam,” I say again, a little irritated.

I start to stand up, but my legs don’t want to work, and I end up falling back down to the edge of the bed. Sam catches me before I go down to the ground on my ass.

“Sorry,” I say sheepishly.

“Now will you let me help?” he asks, a bit irritated himself.

“A little bit,” I say with a grin.

Sam gets an arm around me underneath my arms, pulls me up. He doesn’t complain, but I’m pretty sure most of the weight is on him. Once we get into the bathroom, he drags me over to the toilet, shifts me in front of himself, wraps his arms around my chest from behind me.

“I don’t think so,” I say with a shake of my head.

“Just go, Dean,” Sam says, sounding like he knew I would do this.

“Sam, you know I can’t,” I tell him, probably sounding exhausted.

“There’s no way you can stand on your own,” Sam warns me.

I desperately try to think of a way to do this as my bladder begins to hurt even more. “Let me prop myself up against the countertop, and I’ll piss into the sink,” I say.

“Dean--”

“Come on, Sammy, you know I can’t do this with you in here,” I say again.

Sam lets out a sigh that I can feel on the back of my neck. “I’ll kill you if you fall in here,” he growls at me.

We shuffle over to the sink and I lean my weight on both hands on the countertop. Sam doesn’t take his arms away from my chest.

“I’m going to slowly let go of you. I want to see you stand on your own with only one hand to support you,” Sam orders.

I feel his support leave me even though his arms are still around me. I lean heavily on my left hand, raise my right hand in the air, wiggle my fingers. “Ta-da,” I say sarcastically.

“Jerk,” Sam mumbles as he steps away from me.

“Yeah, whatever. Get out, bitch,” I say with a smile as Sam leaves me alone, closes the door behind him.

I look in the mirror. I look like Hell, but I also notice that I’m in a gray T-shirt and my favorite pair of gray sweat pants instead of the scrubs I left the hospital in.

“Dude, did you change my clothes?” I ask, even though I know he did. Who else would have done it?

“I thought you’d feel more comfortable in your own clothes,” Sam says from the other side of the door.

It does feel good. I’ve been in nothing but scratchy scrubs for so long, I had almost forgotten what soft clothing feels like. “I slept through it?” I ask.

“You slept so hard, I could’ve done pretty much anything to you while you were sleeping,” Sam says with a chuckle.

By the time I’m done pissing in the sink, I feel like I’ve run a race and lost. “Okay, Sam, I’m done,” I say through the door.

The door opens instantly, and Sam comes through with a concerned look on his face. He gets his arm around me again, and we make our way back to my bed. He gently gets me set down on the edge, then lets go of me slowly.

I push myself back, lie down with my head on the pillows this time, swing my legs up onto the bed. “You have no idea how much better that feels,” I say with relief.

Sam chuckles. “You okay?” he asks.

I nod. “Now I am,” I say with a smile. “Knew you’d come for me, man,” I say as I look him in the eye, hopefully conveying how much this means to me.

Sam gives me a soft smile. “Anytime, dude,” he says, then sits down on the edge of his bed. “Can I get you anything?” he asks me.

I shake my head no. “How long was I out?” I ask, just now noticing that the windows are still dark. I must not have slept very long.

“Twenty-two hours,” Sam says with a grin.

I chuckle as I rub my hands over my face. “Why am I still tired?”

“All those drugs are still in your system. You’re going to feel this way for about another twelve hours,” Sam says.

I look around the room for the first time, see some cardboard boxes in the corner farthest from my bed. “What’s with the boxes?” I ask.

“Those are all for you,” Sam says with a smile. I give him a puzzled expression. “The whole explanation or the short version?” he asks with a raised eyebrow.

I turn on my right side so that I’m facing Sam. “Give me the whole thing before I pass out again,” I tell him.

“I started by hacking into the hospital’s computer system, reading everything I could about you, and--”

“You read everything?” I ask, my stomach clenching.

Sam winces. “Yeah,” he says, sounding miserable. “I had to do it. I had to know what I was going to have to deal with when I got you out of there,” he explains.

I roll onto my back again, cover my face with my hands. “By everything--”

“I mean I read everything,” Sam admits. “I’m sorry, Dean. I know a lot of it was very personal information, but I needed it. And if you never want to mention any of it ever again, I promise I’ll never say a word about any of it,” Sam tells me.

I know Sam. He wouldn’t say it if he didn’t mean it. “Jim?” I ask, hoping he didn’t find a way into the counselor’s information.

“His stuff, too,” Sam whispers.

“Fuck,” I grumble.

“Dean, I hope you know that I’d give anything to take back what they did to you in there. I didn’t even like reading it. I can’t imagine experiencing it,” Sam says sincerely.

Well, there’s nothing we can do about it now. He knows. Everything. “Okay, so you hacked in, and then what?” I ask as I turn toward him again, see the guilty look on his face that I wish wasn’t there.

“It turns out Robert is quite computer literate himself, and he caught me. He sent me an e-mail like he knew who I was, saying that he believed you didn’t belong in there,” Sam explains.

“Go, Robert!” I say with a grin.

Sam chuckles, the guilty look replaced by excitement. He loves telling me about his accomplishments even if he doesn’t admit it. “So we start e-mailing back and forth, and he ends up giving me all the information I needed on how to take care of you after I got you out,” Sam says.

“Why do you need shit to take care of me?” I ask, puzzled expression on my face. Sam winces, looks down at his hands for a moment. “Sammy,” I say to get his attention.

He looks back up at me. “You’ve been on some pretty serious drugs for long enough that you’re going to go into withdrawal starting in about twelve hours,” Sam says, looking horribly upset by this fact.

“Like heroin withdrawal serious?” I ask, my eyes wide.

Sam shrugs. “Robert wasn’t sure how bad it would be because it’s different for everybody, so he prepared me for the worst,” he tells me.

I squeeze my eyes shut. “How long does it last?” I ask him, but he doesn’t answer. I open my eyes to see him looking at me like he really doesn’t want to tell me the truth. “Sam?” I prod.

“It’ll start in about twelve hours, and it’ll last for three to twelve days,” he says with a wince.

I let out a groan as I roll onto my back yet again, cover my face with my hands. I hadn’t expected all this. I thought, if I got out, I was out. Now I’m scared all over again. I don’t want to go through withdrawal. After Dad told me about how bad it was, withdrawal symptoms were what kept me away from illegal drugs all my life. “Twelve days?” I almost whine.

Sam whimpers, and I turn to look at him. He winces again. “Involuntary and abnormal muscle movements can last six to twelve weeks,” he says miserably.

I can’t do this. I can’t go through all this. I roll over onto my left side, back to Sam so that he doesn’t see the fear in my eyes. “Tell me something good,” I ask of him.

“Robert told me anything and everything you might need, and I’ve got it there in those boxes,” Sam says confidently.

What if I wet the bed again? Is he ready for that? “How did you get all that stuff?” I ask as I stare at the wall in front of me.

“Bobby helped,” Sam tells me.

“Did you stay with him while I was in the hospital?” I ask blandly, still not able to wrap my head around the fact that I’m going to be a shivering wreck in just a few hours.

“Yeah,” Sam answers.

“So why did you choose last night to break me out?” I ask, interested.

“I read not only Robert’s report from what happened in the morning, Dan’s report of what he found on your leg, but also Jim’s report on your dreams and how you reacted to it,” Sam explains.

This is embarrassing. I didn’t want anybody to know about that dream, and now Sam does. I certainly didn’t want anybody to know about me wetting the bed, and now Sam does.

“You almost died, Dean,” Sam says softly.

That gets my attention. I turn over to look at Sam again. “Huh?” I ask.

Sam scoots back on the bed, pulls his legs up to sit Indian style. “Did you have much contact with a patient named Avery?” he asks me.

“The dude who built his daughter a tree house,” I remind myself out loud. “No,” I say.

Sam reaches into his right pocket, pulls out a chain with an amulet, swings it in the air for me to see. “Avery was something called a Dreamweaver,” Sam informs me.

“What the Hell is that supposed to mean?” I ask as I prop my head up with my right arm.

“Those nightmares you and the other patients were having weren’t because of the medications,” Sam says.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” I ask as I sit up.

Sam shakes his head no. “The whole floor has been having nightmares ever since he came there. Nobody really took notice because psych meds tend to give people vivid dreams, and most of the patients didn’t have extreme nightmares like you did,” Sam explains.

“Let me guess. Danny and a guy named Kevin both had wicked nightmares?” I ask.

“You’ve got it. If you hadn’t stopped Danny, Avery would have killed his fifth victim,” Sam tells me.

My eyes widen. “Fifth?” I ask, surprised.

Sam nods. “He jumped the gun a little with you. He tends to wait until he’s done with one before he moves on to the next, but he wasn’t finished with Danny before he started in on you, and I just wondered if maybe you two had some bad contact that wasn’t reported by the staff,” Sam says.

“No, I never even talked to the guy,” I say, still surprised. “So what’s with the pretty little necklace?” I ask.

“This amulet is what holds the power. Avery just knew how to make it work,” Sam says as he tosses the thing to me.

I catch it in midair, look at it. It’s nothing special. It’s not even something that anybody would look at twice. It’s a black, oval-shaped stone surrounded by silver. The black isn’t even shiny or glittery.

“Before I came to get you, I broke into his room and took it,” Sam tells me.

I look up. Sam’s not telling me everything. “You just walked in and took it?” I ask with a raised eyebrow.

Sam chuckles. “Okay, so he did put up a bit of a struggle. We ended up on the floor before I knocked him unconscious,” Sam admits.

“You okay?” I ask, concerned.

Sam nods. “I just got hit a couple of times by a guy who can’t hold his own in a fight,” Sam says with a smirk.

“So, what do we do with it?” I ask as I dangle it from the end of my index finger.

Sam shrugs. “Smash the black stone. No big deal,” he tells me as I toss it back to him.

“How does it work? How does it kill people?” I ask Sam.

“It doesn’t kill the victims. The Dreamweaver uses the amulet to turn your worst fears into nightmares. They keep getting longer, more vivid to the point where the body starts to believe things are actually happening to it,” Sam explains.

“That’s how I got the bruise on my leg?” I ask.

Sam nods. “The nightmares get to the point where the victim commits suicide just to end them,” Sam tells me.

“So Danny...,” I trail off.

“If he hasn’t given up completely yet, he should feel better now that the nightmares have ended,” Sam says with a shrug.

I nod almost to myself as I look down at my hands. Danny sure looked like he had given up to me. I hope they can help him. I lie back down, still facing Sam.

Sam gets up, puts the amulet on the bedside table, then goes to the table and two chairs by the window. “Can you eat?” he asks me as he searches through a bag.

“Okay,” I say, my stomach letting out a loud growl as I say it. 

Sam chuckles, then walks over to me with a plastic-wrapped sandwich in his left hand, a small bottle of water in his right. “Take it slowly. Your stomach is probably going to be a bit funny,” he warns me.

“It has been since I started on those pills,” I grumble as I open the sandwich, take a bite. “Aren’t you going to eat?” I ask him after I finish half of the sandwich.

“I just ate a little while ago,” Sam says.

I nod, go back to eating. By the time I get through the sandwich, my eyelids start to droop.

“Get some sleep,” Sam says to me as he gets up, takes the garbage from me.

I lie down. “Yes, sir,” I say with a grin, already falling asleep.

 

**SUNDAY – WEEK 4**

I wake up to the feeling of being watched. I open my eyes, but try not to react to the fact that Sam is lying on his right side, facing me. He’s just looking at me.

“Hey,” I whisper.

“Hey,” he whispers back.

I give him a small smile. “What’re you doing?” I ask.

He shrugs. “I missed you,” he says, then leans in, gives me a soft kiss on the forehead, then pulls away to where he was before.

I pout at him. He's taking advantage of the situation, which usually happens when I'm injured from a hunt. It's hard for me to push him away when he's reassuring himself I'm here and alive, so he knows he can get away with the touches and babying.

Sam reaches up with his right hand, runs his fingers through my hair, which isn't as short as I normally keep it. I lean into the touch. I’ve missed him so bad it hurt. I can feel the backs of my eyes prickle at the thought of having to spend any more time away from my brother. I squeeze my eyes shut, try not to cry. I won’t fucking miss the crying when that finally leaves.

“What time is it?” I ask him.

“It’s a little after four in the morning,” he tells me.

I open my eyes, thankfully without any tears coming out, and look at him. “How long do I have before I go into withdrawal?” I ask with a wince. This is scaring me, but I’d rather Sam didn’t know just how much.

“Eight hours, give or take,” he tells me, looking and sounding sad. I give him an unsure smile. “It’s going to be okay,” Sam says softly as his hand travels from my head to my right side. He just rests his hand there.

“Are you sure you’re ready for this?” I ask, unsure about it all myself. Do I really want Sam to see me like this?

“Can’t get rid of me that easily,” he says with a grin.

“Sam, maybe you should go--”

“Don’t even say it, Dean,” Sam says, cutting me off with a fierce look in his eyes. “There’s no way in Hell I’m leaving you alone for this, and it’s not even what you want, anyway, so just shut up and go to sleep.”

“Yes, sir,” I say with a smirk, but then my mind starts to wander.

“What is it?” Sam finally asks. “Am I getting too mushy for you?”

I look back up at him with a grin. “I’ll let it go this once,” I tell him, then yawn.

I’m rewarded with a large smile. “Can you sleep now?” he asks me.

I nod. “Definitely,” I say, then promptly fall asleep.

*

I keep shifting around in bed. I feel like I’ve been doing it for hours. I’m wrapped up in the blankets, but I’m still cold. I can’t stop moving, but I know I’m not fully awake, either. It’s upsetting me, but I don’t know why. I can hear myself whimper a couple of times, but I try to hold it in so I don’t wake Sam up.

I look at the clock to see that it’s two in the afternoon, the room filled with light from the window. I’m shivering so badly my teeth are chattering. Finally I just can’t take it anymore. I get out of bed on wobbly legs, lean over, shake Sam’s left arm, not even taking notice of the fact that Sam’s in the other bed instead of in bed with me.

Sam’s instantly awake and sitting up, looking at me. “What’s wrong? Are you okay?” he asks.

A sob comes out before I can stop it, and then the tears come. I don’t mean to cry, but I’m just so fucking frustrated. “I can’t get warm,” I say, then let another sob out. My bottom lip trembles, and I feel tears running down my cheeks.

Sam sits up right away, eyes wide. “Okay, it’s okay,” he says as he moves to the edge of the bed, stands up. He puts a hand on each of my shoulders. “It’s okay, Dean. Just calm down for me, okay?”

I nod as I wipe at the tears with my right hand even though more take their place. “Okay,” I say.

Sam directs me over to my bed again. “Get back into bed,” Sam says as he gently pushes me in that direction.

“But I’m cold, Sam!” I say louder as I turn to him, more tears coming. “I’m so fucking cold!” I yell through a tight throat as I let my forehead fall to his chest. “It won’t stop!” I tell him as I feel his arms wrap around me.

Sam shushes me. “Calm down. I’ve got you. It’s going to be okay, Dean,” he assures me as he holds me. He lets me calm down a bit, then starts to push me toward the bed again. “Get into bed now,” he says.

“Okay,” I say as I obey him.

“I’m going to get in with you under the covers and hold onto you so that you get warm, okay?” he asks as he climbs in behind me.

“Okay,” I say as Sam gets in and spoons up behind me.

When we’re sufficiently tangled up and the covers are over top of us, I settle down, start to drift off again. I feel Sam kiss the back of my neck just before I fall asleep.

*

I wake to sound of my own moaning, my stomach killing me. I curl in on myself, wrap my arms around my stomach. I sit up in bed to see that Sam isn’t in the room, but then I notice that the bathroom door is closed. A quick look at the clock reveals that it’s only half past three. I didn’t even get two hours of sleep.

My eyes widen as my stomach rolls. I look between the beds, find the garbage can, and start to throw up hard enough that my eyes hurt.

“Dean?” I hear Sam say as he comes out of the bathroom.

It seems like I’m puking up everything I’ve eaten for the past month. It just keeps coming and coming, and my stomach just keeps heaving to the point where I’m scared I’m going to knock something important loose. The heaving finally backs off enough that I lower the wastebasket a little.

Sam sits down on the edge of my bed, starts to wipe my face with a damp washcloth. “It’s okay, Dean,” he assures me.

“Hurts!” I tell him like he doesn’t know.

“I know it hurts, but it’s going to be okay. You’re doing good,” Sam says gently as he wipes my mouth clean. “Are you done for the moment? Can I clean out the can?”

I let him take the basket out of my hand, then flop back down onto the bed, totally exhausted. “I think so,” I say as I close my eyes, try to slow my breathing down.

“I’ll be right back,” Sam says, and then I hear him using the sink in the bathroom.

“Sam!” I yell as I my stomach starts to roll again. Sam comes rushing in with the clean wastebasket, gets to me just in time for me to lose what little I had left in my stomach. When I’m done, I curl in on myself with my hands wrapped around my stomach again. “Hurts,” I growl.

Sam sets the can down, starts wiping my face down again with the washcloth. “I’m sorry it hurts,” he says, sounding as if he feels just terrible about it. He’s got a worried look on his face as well.

“I’m still cold,” I tell him, just in case he forgot.

“I know,” Sam says as he runs his fingers through my hair.

I hear him get up. “Don’t go!” I say quickly before he has a chance to get very far. When I look up at him, I see that he’s got the can in his left hand, the washcloth in his right.

“I need to clean these out, and then I’ll be right back,” he tells me, then turns away.

I let out a moan, curl in on myself even more. I start to fall asleep again, but the pain in my stomach keeps me from totally going under. I feel the bed dip, and I look up to see Sam’s concerned face.

He sets the can down, drapes the washcloth over the edge of it just in case. “Is your stomach any better?” he asks me.

I shake my head no. “It hurts,” I tell him yet again.

I watch as he grabs a bottle of water from the bedside table. He opens it. “Drink a little of this to rinse your mouth out,” he says as he tilts it toward me.

“I’ll throw it up,” I mumble as I turn my head away.

“Just a little,” Sam urges. “I don’t want you to get dehydrated.”

“No,” I say into the pillow.

I hear him sigh. “Okay, but I’m going to put it on the table. I want you to drink some if you feel like you can. Don’t take a lot. Don’t take more than a sip, but get some into you,” Sam tells me.

The shivering seems to worsen a bit, and Sam tugs the blanket up to my shoulders. I feel Sam start to get up, and before I even realize what I’m doing, I reach out and grab hold of the material of his boxer shorts. I look up at him to gauge his reaction, and he actually looks a little surprised. I don’t let go, but I don’t say anything, either.

Sam gives me a small smile. “I’m not going to leave you alone,” he tells me. We look at each other until Sam takes a look down at my hand. “How about I get back into bed with you?” he asks, then looks back up at me.

I let go of Sam’s shorts, and he climbs in behind me as promised. “Sorry,” I mumble into my pillow once we get settled.

Sam lifts my shirt a bit so he can get his hand under there to gently lay it on my stomach. “Stop apologizing,” Sam whispers into my left ear, then puts his head on the edge of my pillow.

The warmth from Sam’s hand feels good on my stomach. I swear it makes it feel better, but I think I’ve blown Sam’s mind enough for one night to tell him. I fall asleep to his thumb almost tickling my skin as it moves back and forth under my shirt.

*

The next time I wake up, it’s to my own whining. I open my eyes to see that I’m now facing Sam.

“What’s wrong?” he asks, instantly awake and into caretaker mode.

“I don’t know. I don’t feel good, but I don’t know why. I just don’t feel right,” I complain.

Sam tries hard not to frown at my vague explanation. “Does anything hurt?” he asks me.

I shake my head no. “My stomach still hurts, but the rest of me just feels weird,” I tell him with a wince.

“Can you drink a little bit for me?” he asks as he sits up in bed.

“It still hurts,” I say as I sit up, too.

“You need fluids,” he insists as he reaches across me to snag the water bottle. He takes the cap off, holds the bottle up to my lips.

I push it away with both hands. “I’ll just throw it up,” I tell him.

“I just want you to take a sip,” Sam says as he pushes my hands out of the way of the bottle with his free hand.

“I don’t want to throw up,” I say.

“Just a sip,” he repeats as he finally gets the mouth of the bottle to touch my lips.

I growl, but give up and take a sip. He only allows me about half of a mouthful, just like he said, before he pulls the bottle away from me. I watch as he sets it back on the bedside table.

“Okay?” he asks.

I shake my head no. “I don’t know what’s wrong, but water didn’t fix it, you creep,” I say as I let myself fall back against the wall, head making a bit of a thump as it connects with the painted plaster.

“Are you still cold?” he asks me.

“Yeah,” I moan.

“Are you tired?”

“Yeah,” I say as I slide toward him, smack my forehead against his shoulder. He feels warm. He smells good. He smells like Sam. I missed him so badly.

Sam wraps his arms around me, pulls me closer to him.

*

I startle myself awake some time later in the same position. He held me all the time I slept.

“Sam?”

“Yeah?”

“Don’t leave, okay?” I ask of him again. I don’t know why I need the reassurance. I don’t know why I’m being so pathetic.

“I’m not going anywhere,” Sam tells me again.

“Don’t leave,” I mumble as I fall back to sleep.

*

When I wake, Sam is still holding me, but it’s darker in the room. “Ouch,” I groan.

“What’s wrong?” Sam asks, sounding concerned.

I rub my stomach with my right hand. “Stomach,” I tell him.

“Are you going to throw up?” he asks.

“I think so,” I say, and he untangles himself from me, leans over my legs, and pulls the wastebasket with the washcloth on it up onto the bed, sets it on my lap. Sam puts his right arm around my back, his left hand on the can, so it doesn’t fall. “I hate throwing up,” I complain as my stomach starts clenching.

“Just calm down, and slow your breathing down a bit,” Sam tells me as he rubs my back.

Once he says it, I realize that I’m panting. And it isn’t until he tells me to that I try to calm down. It doesn’t make a bit of difference, though, as I suddenly grab the can with both hands, throw up the little bit of water that I sipped earlier, and then start dry heaving.

“You’re okay,” Sam says as he starts to wipe my face down with the washcloth. “Slow your breathing down,” he tells me again.

“This sucks,” I nearly yell as I let myself fall onto Sam, my forehead colliding with his chest.

Somehow Sam gets the washcloth and wastebasket on the floor in between the two beds, then wraps his arms around me. “Everything’s going to be okay,” he says as he gently runs his fingers over my right shoulder.

“How long?” I ask.

“How long has it been since it started?” he asks me.

“How long until it’s over?” I ask him.

“Robert said the worst happens in about twelve hours, but that the whole deal takes anywhere from three to twelve days, so I don’t know how long you’ve got to go,” Sam tells me.

The backs of my eyes start to prickle again, but I really don’t want to cry in front of Sam, even though I already did earlier. I bring up both hands, push my fingers into my eyes to get the sensation to go away. 

“Do you think you can drink for me?” he asks as he reaches over, grabs the water bottle off of the bedside table.

“No,” I groan as I turn my face away from the bottle and into his chest even more.

I hear him uncap it. “Yeah, come on, Dean,” he says as he taps my shoulder. “Just a sip,” he tells me.

“No,” I say, not moving.

“Do you have to piss?” Sam asks me.

“No,” I say again.

“Do you know why?”

“No,” I say, snuggling into him as hard as I can.

“It’s because you’re not drinking enough, and you’re going to get dehydrated,” Sam tells me.

“I don’t want to throw up again,” I say, voice muffled by Sam’s shirt.

“I know you don’t, but you’ve got to drink,” Sam insists.

“Just a sip?” I ask.

“Yeah,” he says.

“Okay,” I give, then turn and take the smallest sip possible.

Sam seems placated, puts the bottle back onto the bedside table. His fingers start to run through my hair again, and it puts me to sleep.

*

When I wake up again, Sam’s not in bed with me.

“Sam?” I ask, a little panicked.

“I’m right here,” Sam says from over by the window. I turn over in bed to see that he’s sitting in the chair with his laptop on the table in front of him. “You okay?” he asks as he sits forward in the seat.

“No,” I whimper.

He stands up, walks over to the bed, and sits down on the edge closest to me. “What’s wrong, Dean?” he asks me as he rests the back of his right hand on my forehead for a moment, pulls it away to rub my right upper arm.

“My skin doesn’t feel right,” I tell him. I feel stupid telling him, but I want him to know just the same.

“What’s wrong with your skin?” he asks, somehow not making me feel like an idiot.

“It doesn’t feel like it’s supposed to be mine,” I whisper as if it’s too silly a concept to say out loud.

Sam doesn’t laugh at me. “You’ll feel better soon. Don’t worry about it, okay?” Sam asks of me.

“Okay,” I agree. Sam starts to get up, but I grab his right wrist. “My stomach hurts, too,” I tell him.

“I made you some broth,” he says as he gently takes my hand away from his wrist. “I want you to see if you can get some of it down,” he says as he walks over to the hot plate, picks up a mug that was warming on it. 

“No!” I nearly yell as I childishly pull the covers over my head. 

I hear him come back over, feel him sit down on the edge of the bed. “I want you to try for me,” Sam says as he pulls at the blanket.

“No!” I say again from under the covers.

“You need fluids,” Sam argues again.

“I need sleep,” I reply.

I hear him set the mug on the bedside table. He then uses both hands to pull the blanket away from me. “You need to get something in your stomach,” he says.

“My stomach hurts,” I growl as I try to pull the covers away from him.

“Stop!” Sam barks, and I freeze at the tone. “If you don’t get something in you, I’m going to have to hook you up to an IV for rehydration. I don’t think you want that, do you?” he asks.

“No! Don’t!” I say quickly.

He picks up the mug again. “Drink,” he says as he holds it out to me. 

I slowly sit up. “You actually have the shit to give me an IV,” I say, and it’s not a question.

“I told you I have everything I need to get you better,” Sam assures me. I take the mug from him. “Just take a sip or two. Don’t overdo it just because you’re scared of needles.”

“Eat me,” I grumble, then take a sip of the broth with shaky hands. I let it settle for a few seconds, then take another small sip. “You know how to put an IV in?” I ask when it hits me.

Sam winces. “I know how to do it, but Bobby didn’t seem too appreciative of how long it took me to find a good vein,” he admits. “Okay, that’s enough,” Sam says as he pulls the mug from my hands, sets it on the bedside table.

I close my eyes, let my head fall back to the wall. It’s then that a full body spasm hits me. It comes from deep inside my stomach, radiates outwards so that it looks like somebody punched me in my lower back. My eyelids open quickly, and I look to Sam like he’s going to know what happened to me.

“Calm down,” Sam says as he checks my temperature with the back of his right hand again. Seemingly satisfied, he rests his hand on my left upper thigh. “Remember those involuntary muscle movements I told you about?”

My eyes widen. “That’s what’s going to be happening for six to twelve weeks?” I ask, panicked and pissed at the same time.

“It’s not always going to be that strong, but yes, that’s the involuntary muscle movements I warned you about. It’s nothing to be scared about,” Sam reassures me.

Too late. I’m scared. I scoot down in the bed, turn my back to Sam, curl up into a ball so he won’t see a couple of tears escape.

Sam starts to rub my right arm. “You okay?” he asks softly.

I move my right hand so it’s covering my stomach, but get another full-body spasm for my troubles. “Yeah,” I say, hoping he can’t hear the tears in my voice.

“I’m going to be right over there by the window, okay?” he asks me, probably sensing I don’t want him to see how upset I am.

“Okay,” I mumble. I hear him sit down in the chair, his fingers going to work on his laptop. The next second, I’m crawling over the blankets just in time to throw up into the wastebasket.

Sam comes back over instantly, rubbing my back and getting the washcloth ready. “It’s okay, Dean. I’m here. It’s okay,” he reassures me as the dry heaving backs off.

I sit up in bed, let Sam wipe my face yet again. I back up to the wall, but get another spasm, and I end up blasting my head into the wall instead of resting it there. “Shit!” I yell as I rub the back of my head. 

Sam winces in sympathy. “Are you okay?” he asks.

“Yeah,” I growl.

“I’m going to go clean this out,” Sam says as he picks up the wastebasket.

“Okay,” I say as I watch him nonchalantly grab one of the cardboard boxes on his way into the bathroom. I wonder what he’s doing only until I see him walk out of the bathroom with a glove on his right hand, a blister pack of suppositories in his left. “No!” I yell as I scoot backwards on the bed. I’m not stupid enough to turn over onto my stomach.

“You need this, Dean,” Sam says as he comes around the second bed.

“No! Don’t! I don’t need it!” I say as I try to get even further away.

Sam reaches down, grabs a hold of my right ankle with his right hand, pulls my leg to his right, and easily flips me onto my stomach.

“Sam, stop! I don’t need it!” I yell into the bedclothes.

Sam straddles my knees, and I turn to look at him over my right shoulder, just in time to see him set the blister pack on the bed to his right. I reach back and cover my ass with both hands, but he gathers up my hands, holds them in his stupidly-huge hands. He gets both of my wrists situated in his left hand and pins them at my lower back.

“Stop it! Sam, I mean it! Don’t do this!”

I try to get out of his hold, but he just lowers my sweat pants with his right hand. I put my forehead to the bed as I hear the blister pack crinkling.

“Stop! Sam, stop! Please stop!” I yell into the bed as I feel Sam’s finger find my opening. I growl as he pushes the suppository in, panting into the sheets as I feel him pull my pants back into place, and then he finally lets go of my hands. 

Just as Sam gets off of my knees, I turn as quickly as I can, plant my foot on his chest, and send him tumbling to the floor between the beds. I hear him grunt as he hits, but I’m too busy climbing down off the bed and onto him to care. I straddle his hips, pin his wrists to the carpet on either side of his head.

“I just spent the last three weeks of my life getting things done to me you didn’t even want to read about. You can’t just...,” I trail off as the tears start to blur my vision. I drop my forehead to Sam’s chest and pant, trying to force the tears away.

Sam lets me sniffle a few times. “Dude, are you wiping your snot on my shirt?” he asks, smile evident in his tone of voice.

A chuckle that is half sob comes out of me. “You got a problem with that?” I ask him. Sam doesn’t answer, just lets me get myself under control in my own time. I sit back, wipe the tears from my face as I get to my feet. I turn, flop face down onto the bed, shove my face into the pillows.

“I’m going to want you to try and eat something in about fifteen or twenty minutes,” Sam says, and I hear him walk back over to the chair, sit down, and start typing on his laptop again.

I don’t bother responding. My body spasms again, and I let out a small grunt. They seem to be getting stronger. I close my eyes, try to relax, hoping that will make the spasms less severe. It doesn’t work. Just when I feel like I’m about to fall asleep, I get a spasm, and it wakes me up again. I hear Sam rummaging through some plastic bags in the corner of the room where the boxes are, and I cringe. I don’t know what he’s going to do to me now.

“Can you sit up for me, Dean?” he asks as he walks over, sits down on the edge of the bed.

I warily turn over, scoot back until I’m against the wall. I look down at his hands. He’s got a small package of crackers. “My stomach still hurts,” I inform him.

“It’s not any better after suppository?” he asks as he looks at me with a raised eyebrow.

He’s right. It is better. I don’t want to admit that to him, though. “My stomach still hurts,” I repeat stubbornly.

He holds a cracker out to me. “I want you to eat two, then take a few sips of water,” he says.

I take the cracker from him with a shaky hand. “I really don’t like throwing up,” I tell him like he doesn’t know.

“I know, but hopefully the suppository will make it so you can keep something down,” Sam says as he rests a hand on my thigh, rubs his thumb back and forth over the material there. He watches as I eat the whole thing before offering me some water. “Take it easy on the water,” he says as he hands the bottle to me.

I carefully take just a sip, then set the bottle between my legs. I manage the second cracker and another sip of water without throwing up. Sam caps the bottle, sets it on the bedside table, and closes the package of crackers, sets that next to the water.

“Don’t lay down yet,” he says as he gets up, goes over to the dreaded cardboard boxes. He pulls out a bottle, brings it over, sits back down on the edge of the bed.

“Over-the-counter antacids?” I ask, wincing at just the thought of the chalky shit.

“Richards had you on a prescription antacid for your stomach. Robert suggested this as not only a substitute, but as something that would help when you were going through withdrawal,” Sam says as he pours some of the gritty stuff into the little plastic cup that came with the bottle.

I take the cup from him, down it quickly, making a sour face as I hand the cup back to Sam. “That’s going to keep me from hurling?” I ask with a raised eyebrow.

Sam winces. “We’re hoping that, between the antacids and the suppositories, we should be able to keep you at least hydrated for the next few days,” he tells me.

“Oh, you’re not doing the suppository thing again,” I say as I shake my head no.

“Dean--”

“No, Sam, it’s not going to happen,” I say firmly, cutting him off before he gives me an argument.

“Let’s just--”

“Oh, shit!” I nearly scream as the room fills with a blinding light that I flinch away from.

“What’s wrong?” Sam asks, sounding just a little panicked.

The light dims slowly until I see where it’s coming from. Mom is hovering between the front door and the window. She’s dressed in a white, flowing dress, and light seems to be emanating from her.

“Dean?” I hear Sam say, but I ignore him.

She looks beautiful. Her gorgeous blonde hair is blowing in a wind that touches nothing but her, and she’s smiling softly at me, looking me right in the eye.

“Is it a hallucination?” Sam asks, sounding calmer than just a moment ago.

I nod, stupid look on my face as I just stare at Mom. I don’t want to look away. She might leave.

“Okay, stay here while I get you something,” Sam says, starts to get up.

“No!” I say as I finally look at Sam again, grab his wrist. “It’s okay, Sam,” I say with a smile that I hope lets him know I’m not freaking out over this.

His eyebrow raises. “Is it a hallucination?” he asks again.

“It’s Mom,” I tell him, then look at Mom again. I don’t pay that much attention as Sam leaves me. I just stare at her. I can feel warmth coming from her. It feels good. I’ve been cold since this whole withdrawal thing started, and I finally feel warm with her here.

The bed dips to my right, and somewhere in my head I register the fact that Sam has come back. “I know you don’t like shots, Dean, but I can’t have you hallucinating on me,” Sam says.

I turn my head quickly, look at Sam with widened eyes in time to see him flick the bubbles out of a syringe. “No!” I say as I push his hand away.

Sam grabs my wrist with his free hand, holds it out to the side. “Dean, do you remember the hallucination you had of Dad?” he asks me.

I wince, hardly able to tear my eyes away from Mom long enough to nod. “Yeah, so?” I ask.

“This is another hallucination. Do you really want to see it if Mom decides to do something to you like Dad did?” he asks me.

That gets my attention, and I look Sam in the eye, notice that his pupils are swirling with pretty colors. “No,” I admit with a frown.

“Okay, then lean over a bit, so I can give you the shot,” Sam says as he lets go of my wrist.

I shake my head no. “Not a shot! Please! Don’t give me a shot, Sam!” I ask of him with wide eyes.

Sam stands up. “I’m really sorry, Dean, but I have to do this,” he says as he puts the syringe between his teeth, comes at me.

“No! Don’t!” I scream as he uses both hands to get my upper body down onto the bed to my left side.

Sam straddles my legs, shoulders me into position with his right arm, then uses his left to take the syringe from between his teeth.

“Sam, please don’t! I don’t want it! I don’t need it! It’s just Mom! She’s not going to hurt me!” I yell at him, then let out a growl as the needle pierces the skin of my right hip. Sam’s weight finally leaves me, but I stay where I am, eyes squeezed shut.

“Dean?” Sam climbs onto the bed when I don’t answer him. I feel him sit down in front of me. Fingers start running through my hair. “I’m so sorry I had to do that,” he tells me, sounding upset.

I thought that, once I got out of the hospital, I wouldn’t have anything done to me anymore that I didn’t want. This is hard to swallow. I don’t bother responding to Sam at all. I certainly don’t want to open my eyes, see Mom is gone. I turn my face into the sheets, sniffle once as I feel the drugs start to take effect. Sam just keeps running his fingers through my hair. Between Sam’s ministrations and the mild sedative, I feel like I could sleep, so I do.

*

I wake to another full-body spasm. The sedative must have kept the spasms to a minimum, allowing me to sleep at least for a little while. I feel even worse now. I start counting the seconds in between spasms. It takes anywhere from fifteen to thirty seconds before I have another one. That sounds like a lot. This is going to wear me out.

I know Sam is sleeping at the foot of the bed, and when I open my eyes, I see that he’s facing me. He’s breathing softly, looking impossibly young and at peace. For a moment, I wonder if I could possibly learn how to use the Dreamweaver myself, only give Sam good dreams instead of nightmares.

“Leave the door open,” Sam mumbles as I start to slide off the bed.

“Yes, sir,” I say as I stand up. I was hoping I wouldn’t get spasms while walking or doing other things, but they’re still there.

I look at the sink for a moment, wondering if I should use it again, because when a spasm hits, it seems like every muscle is involved. I’d hate to piss all over the bathroom just because my hand couldn’t stay still. I decide to go for the toilet, but concentrate on holding everything as still as possible, which only makes the shaking worse. I wait for a spasm to hit, then start to piss. One decides to hit me at only fourteen seconds, and I end up squeezing my dick, sending piss onto the rim of the bowl.

“Shit!”

“You okay?” Sam asks from the other room.

“I’m fine. Stay out there,” I say, knowing he’s on the verge of coming to see if I’m okay.

If I would have made just a little bit more of a fuss, he’d be in here already. And I would rather he not see the piss all over the side of the bowl. I know he wouldn’t laugh at me, but it’s still embarrassing. I clean up the mess as quickly as one can do when they’re shaking as badly as I am. I feel like my body is falling apart. I want this fixed.

“I’m fine,” I repeat as I enter the room again, just to reassure Sam. He’s sitting up against the wall at the head of the bed. I crawl onto the bed on Sam’s right side, wrap my arms around his waist, and rest my head on his right thigh. “How can I be so tired already? All I did was take a piss,” I grumble. Sam starts to run his fingers through my hair. It feels so good that I close my eyes.

“This is a lot for your body to handle,” Sam says.

I fall asleep to the feeling of Sam’s body warming me, but I awaken feeling cold and prickly. Sam isn’t beneath me anymore, and I’m shivering to the point where my teeth are chattering.

“I’m right here,” Sam says from the other side of the room.

I let out a whimper as I turn onto my back, stare up at the ceiling. There’s an ugly water spot. It’s not big, but it makes me sick to my stomach for some reason. I reach up and start to rub my stomach, but stop as soon as I feel skin on skin. It burns. It doesn’t feel right. It feels horrible. I drop my arm to my side in defeat.

“Do you think you can drink some water this time?” Sam says, and I hear him get up from his chair.

I reach up to rub my face with both hands, but stop as soon as skin touches skin again. I can’t believe how bad this feels. Then I notice that my clothes feel scratchy. I’ve got my softest clothes on, but they don’t feel good. It feels like I’ve rolled in dry grass, and I have tons of little pieces in my clothes poking at me.

Sam walks up to the bedside table, picks up the water bottle, opens it. “Can you sit up for me?” Sam asks me.

“Yeah,” I say as I sit up, scoot back until I’m against the wall at the head of the bed. I take the water from Sam, drink a little bit, hand it back to him.

Sam sets the bottle down, sits down on the edge of the bed. He reaches out and rests his right hand on my upper thigh.

“No! Don’t touch!” I yelp.

Sam immediately removes his hand, eyes wide. “What happened? What did I do?” he asks.

I shake my head no. “You didn’t do anything. My skin just feels horrible. I can’t describe it, but nothing feels good, and I don’t even want my clothes touching my skin right now. Everything hurts,” I tell him.

“Do you want me to help you out of your clothes?” he asks.

“No, I’m too cold,” I nearly whine.

To his credit, he doesn't laugh at my ridiculousness. “Do you want to take a shower?” he asks me.

“That actually sounds like torture right now, Sammy,” I tell him with a bit of a chuckle.

Sam winces. “Can I do anything for you?” I shake my head no, and it turns spastic when my body jerks. “Do you want to watch TV?” he asks.

“No, just go back to what you were doing. I’m okay,” I say with a sad imitation of a smile.

He’s trying hard. He wants to touch me. Sam’s so tactile. He wants to reassure me, and that’s the best way he knows how. “Okay, well, just yell for me if you need anything,” he says, then goes back to his laptop.

I roll around on the bed for the next forty-five minutes, looking at the clock in between counting the seconds from one spasm to the next. A feeling was building the entire time, but suddenly I realize what the feeling is. I’m horny. I’m extremely horny. I roll around some more, don’t bother holding back the grunts and whines that seem to accompany my predicament.

“I’m fucking horny!” I yell.

There is silence in the room as Sam probably recovers from the scare, then tries to figure out what to say to my proclamation. I hear him get up, and then feel him sit down on the bed beside me.

I sit up and look at him. “Sam, I think I’m going to die. I’m so horny, I think I’m going to die,” I tell him seriously.

I see Sam’s eyes glance down at my groin, then back up to look me in the eye. “Do you want me to leave so you can take care of that?” he asks as he nods to my groin.

“I don’t know how I can,” I whimper at him.

Sam tries hard not to laugh, but he's got a grin on his face. “Well, I can think of several ways.”

“And do all of those ways involve skin-on-skin?” I ask with wide eyes.

“Oh,” he says, finally getting it, frowning. “What if you just touched your dick, nothing else,” Sam offers.

“It’s still skin!” I tell him.

“I know that,” he says with a smile. “But maybe it's not as bad as you're imagining. Just kinda brush against it through your clothes.”

“Fine, I'll try it,” I say, then let the fingers of my right hand just lightly touch my dick through the material of my sweat pants. “Oh, fuck, it fucking hurts!” I yelp again, beginning to pant.

Sam flinches, as if he felt the pain of it himself. “Sorry,” he says with a wince.

“It’s not your fault,” I say with a frown. “It’s me and these fucking drugs.”

“It’s okay. Just calm down,” Sam says softly. “Take deeper breaths, and try to calm yourself down.”

I slowly try to get my breathing under control, getting annoyed when the spasms don't even leave me alone while I'm trying to calm myself. “It still hurts, and I’m so horny it’s twitching,” I groan at him.

“How long have you been hard?” he asks me, looking concerned.

I glance at the clock. “At least a half hour,” I whine, even more upset now that I realize how long this has been going on.

Sam looks around the room as if the answer will come to him that way. “Okay, stay here,” he says as he stands up, walks over to the table.

“What are you going to do?” I ask, suddenly worried. He grabs his phone. “Oh, don’t even think about calling and telling anybody about this, Sam,” I say.

“I’ve got to,” Sam says.

“Wait! Stop!” I say as Sam heads for the door.

“What?” Sam asks as he turns to look at me.

“Don’t--”

“I’m going to call a friend of Bobby. He’s a doctor. He’s the one who helped me get all the shit I would need to take care of you. So just stay there, and I’ll go outside and call him,” Sam orders, then leaves before I can say anything else.

I flop back onto the bed, look up at the ceiling, and groan when I see the stupid water stain again. I can’t hear what Sam says, but he’s only gone a few minutes. I sit up again and watch as he comes over, sits down on the edge of the bed.

“Okay, the doctor said that, if your erection lasts for more than three hours--”

“Three hours!” I nearly scream.

“If your erection lasts for more than three hours, I’m supposed to give you pseudoephedrine,” Sam says.

I pause for a moment. “A decongestant?” I ask with a confused look on my face. Sam nods. I don’t bother asking how it works. “What if that doesn’t work?” I ask.

“The doctor said that, if it lasts more than four hours, then we need to get you to a hospital,” Sam tells me.

My eyes widen. “Are you fucking kidding me?”

“He says it shouldn’t come to that,” Sam says, shaking his head. “He thinks that you’re just horny because of what the withdrawal is doing to your body, and it’s nothing more serious. He said that we should keep you calm, and try applying an ice pack.”

“Don’t even think about the ice,” I warn him.

“Would you rather hear what they have to do at the hospital if you stay hard past four hours?” Sam asks with a raised eyebrow.

“Ice would be good,” I say quickly.

“I thought you might feel that way.” Sam says as he gets up, walks over to the boxes in the corner, rummages around until he finds a small sandwich bag, then heads for the door. He comes back moments later with an ice-filled bag, hands it to me.

“Thanks,” I say, not really sure this is going to work. I look at it for a moment, wondering just how I’m going to do this.

“Why don’t you lay down on top of it?” Sam says as he takes it back, positions it on the bed. “Lay down on your stomach,” he tells me as he points to the spot he wants me.

I do as he says. The spasms really aren’t helping the erection at all. Every time I get one, my dick gets rubbed into the bed.

Sam looks down at me sadly. “Can I do anything else for you?” he asks.

“I’m good,” I say with a bit of a smile that probably looks more like a grimace.

“Try and get some sleep,” he says, looking like he wants to touch me, soothe me somehow.

“Okay,” I say, then close my eyes. I hear him go back to the chair. I don’t know what he’s researching, but it must be interesting. I wonder if he’s researching for a new hunt. I wouldn’t mind killing something evil soon.

The shivering and cold that I feel from the withdrawal is only compounded by the bag of ice at my groin. It almost feels good, but the spasms make it hard to relax or to even think about sleeping. I’m tired, but I’m starting to feel bored. I don’t know what I want to do, but lying here isn’t it. I try for quite a while to get to sleep, but the spasms just make it impossible to do anything other than start to fall asleep.

I open my eyes, let out a groan. “Sam,” I whine.

“Yeah?”

“The walls are breathing,” I tell him as I squeeze my eyes closed. It almost makes me sick looking at them, not because it's upsetting me but because te motion is strange and it's doing odd things to my stomach.

I feel the bed dip to my right, but Sam doesn’t touch me this time. “Are you seeing anything else?”

I look up at Sam, let out a gasp before I can stifle it, eyes widening. I catch myself before I scramble away from him. Instead I squeeze my eyes closed again, press my forehead to the bed. I feel Sam get up, hear him over by the boxes. I know he’s getting a syringe ready for me, but after seeing Sam’s face do whatever the Hell it just did, I'd consider begging for the shot.

“Just stay still,” Sam says the bed dips again.

I try hard not to stop him, but can’t help tensing up. I hate this. I let out a grunt as Sam pushes the needle into my hip once again, but I manage to keep my hands away from him.

“Keep your eyes closed for a little while, okay?” Sam says, still not touching me.

“Okay,” I say with a pathetically small voice.

Sam leaves me alone again, but it feels like he’s watching me. He’s not typing. He’s just sitting in his chair.

“Why am I hallucinating when I feel completely lucid?” I ask, knowing that he’s just waiting for me to say something.

“It’s the medications you were on. Brain chemistry isn’t something to play around with and there are side effects to every medication, whether a person needs it or not,” Sam explains.

“Am I acting strange?” I ask. I swear a squeak comes out of him, as if he’s sitting over there with his mouth hanging open, not knowing what to say. “I mean I know some weird shit is happening to me, but I’m still acting like me, right?” I ask again.

“Yeah,” Sam says. It doesn’t sound like he’s lying. “It is strange. One second we’re having a conversation. The next second you’re seeing Mom over my shoulder,” he says like he can’t believe it, either.

“None of these drugs have done any permanent damage, have they?” I ask, having wanted to ask earlier, but been afraid to.

“You weren’t on any of them long enough to do anything more than fuck with your nervous system,” Sam says.

“Sam?”

“Yeah?”

“What happens if the erection won’t go away?” I ask, probably sounding as scared as I am inside.

“Go to sleep, Dean,” Sam says instead of answering me.

“But--”

“It’ll be okay. Just try and sleep,” Sam says again.

“Fine,” I growl.

 

**MONDAY – WEEK 4**

I come back to awareness slowly. I cringe at the fact that I still feel horny, even just waking. I roll onto my left side, but the ice pack is gone. “Where’s the ice pack?” I mumble, still half asleep, but scared that my dick is still a little hard.

“It’s only supposed to be left on for twenty minutes at a time,” Sam says from the other bed. “In the last two hours, you’ve had it on for a total of half that time.”

“You moved me while I was sleeping?” I ask.

“Yeah, you were out of it,” Sam says as he looks up at me from his laptop on his lap. He gives me a smile. “How does it feel?” he asks me.

“Better, but I’ve still got a semi,” I say with a wince.

“Are you still horny?”

“Yeah, but the urgency of it has backed off a little,” I tell him.

“How does your skin feel?”

“It still feels awful,” I say with a scowl as I drag myself to a standing position.

“Leave the door open,” Sam says absently as he looks back at his laptop.

“I’m not going to fall in, Francis,” I grumble, but leave the door open anyway. After I’m done cleaning up after myself, I come back into the room.

“Do you mind if I take a shower?” Sam asks me.

I chuckle. “I’m a big boy. I think I can handle being alone for a few minutes,” I say, wondering if he can tell that I actually don’t want to be alone at all.

“I’m going to leave the door open. Yell if you need anything, okay?” he asks.

“Okay,” I say as I ease myself back down onto the bed. I frown as even touching the bed with the bare skin of my forearms makes me feel gross. I probably should take a shower myself soon.

I want to do something. This hotel room is stifling, and I just want out. I’m not panicking. I just want to take a walk. I pull my boots on without socks, without doing up the laces. I write a quick note to Sam, put it on top of the TV where our notes to each other usually go, then I grab a keycard off of the top of the dresser, step outside.

It feels so good to be outside in the fresh air. It’s perfect out here. Of course, I would probably say that no matter what the temperature was just because I was actually outside for the first time in a long time.

I walk to the end of our row of motel rooms, turn to the right on the sidewalk, and follow it to the courtyard. I slide up onto a picnic table, sprawl out on my back widthwise on it, putting my hands behind my head. 

I wish that it was daytime, the sun was out. The wind is blowing just a little bit, but that doesn’t feel as good as it should. Everything would feel so much better if I didn’t have these drugs in my system. It would feel better if I wasn’t having a nearly full-body spasm every half minute or so, too.

I don’t know how long I’m lying there, but it feels so good to not be told what to do or be stuck in a room somewhere. I don’t want to leave.

“What the fuck, Dean?” Sam screams at me.

I nearly fall off the picnic table as I try to sit up. “Sam, you scared--”

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” Sam yells, cutting me off. He looks furious. Well, as furious as one can look in nothing but jeans and damp hair.

“Dude, I--”

“Get back in the room!” he says, then points toward our room.

I don’t think I’ve ever seen him this mad. It’s almost scary. I know he’s not going to hurt me, but I don’t like seeing him that upset. “Look, man, I’m sorry I scared you, but--”

“Get in the fucking room,” Sam says, voice low and controlled.

I hold my hands up in front of me for a moment. “I’m going,” I say, then head off toward our room. I hear him stomping behind me, and I’m not surprised when the door is slammed behind me. I walk over to the corner of the room, toe my boots off while Sam goes to the center of the room.

“Sit!” Sam orders as he points to my bed.

I figure it’s best not to argue with him right now, so I do as I’m told. He looks like he’s about to fall apart. I watch as he paces the center of the room. I wouldn’t have left if I would’ve known he would react like this. “I left a note,” I say helpfully as I point toward the TV.

He stops mid pace to turn and look at me. “You don’t just leave, Dean!” he yells at me.

“Sam, would you calm down? You don’t need to keep yelling at me. I’m fine,” I tell him.

“You are going through withdrawal. You are having hallucinations. You are not in your right mind,” Sam lists, voice toned down a bit. “You don’t leave!” he yells again.

“I said I was sorry, man. I don’t know what you want from me, here,” I say as I shrug my shoulders, eyes wide.

Sam lets out an agitated huff. “What I want from you is for you to stay! I want to know that you’re safe! Do you even see that what you did was dangerous?” he asks me.

That is a question that could easily get my ass kicked. Again, I don’t think he would ever hurt me, but Sam can go off on a rant just about better than anybody I’ve ever known. My jaw drops open as I try to come up with a response that won’t agitate him further.

Before I can speak, Sam drops to his knees in front of me, rests his forearms on my thighs, and looks up at me with a sorrow that makes my stomach clench. “I can’t lose you,” Sam says brokenly as he looks me in the eye.

Next thing I know, my head is encased in huge hands, and I’m being pulled into a strong hug. His touch doesn’t feel good on my skin even though I wish it did, but I know that Sam needs this, so I wrap my arms around him.

Sam finally lets go of me after what seems like forever. He pulls my head down until we’re leaning on each other’s foreheads. “I’m sorry, Dean, but I was so scared when I came out and you weren’t here. You have to know how bad an idea that was,” he says as he pulls away, looks up at me.

“I just had to get out of here for a minute. I’ve been kept indoors for so long that I just wanted out. I wanted some fresh air,” I explain.

“Could you do me a favor?” he asks.

“Maybe,” I say with a sideways grin.

“Could you ask me to take a walk with you next time you feel like you need some fresh air?” he asks.

“That I can do,” I assure him.

Sam suddenly pulls his hands away from me as if burned by the touch. “Oh, I forgot! The touching!” he says with a wince.

I chuckle at that. “It’s okay. I mean, it’s not okay, but it’s okay,” I say stupidly.

 

WEDNESDAY – WEEK 4

“You’re sure about this?” I ask one more time.

It really is pretty out. I wish we were out here for a walk or something. The sun is shining, and there’s a soft breeze. Everything smells fresh and alive. I can hear the wind blowing through the leaves on the trees. There are kids skateboarding across the street from the motel. Everything is almost too normal.

“You’ve seen firsthand what it can do. It has a lot of power. Too much power,” Sam says reasonably.

I look down at the amulet. Sitting on the picnic table outside the motel rooms, it doesn’t look very malicious. “This could be used for good, Sammy,” I say, a token protest, and we both know it. It strikes me as odd that I’m fighting for it, Sam against it. It’s an odd role reversal.

“You have the honors, big brother,” Sam says as he hands me the hammer he’s holding.

I take it from him, wince. “Seems like a waste,” I mumble as I imagine relieving Sam of his nightmares for good. I turn and look up at Sam. “This is the right thing to do?” I say, but it comes out as a question.

“I think you know the answer to that, and I trust your judgment. You know what to do, Dean,” Sam reassures me.

I do know. I’ve known ever since I set eyes on the amulet. It’s dark magic. There’s no question it has to go, no matter how much I wish different. “Okay, then,” I sigh as I heft the hammer, bring it down on the amulet.

A satisfying crunching sound and a small puff of black smoke let us know that it’s over. It won’t ever be used again to hurt someone.

I feel Sam’s right elbow knock into my side, and when I turn to look at him, he gives me a smile. He doesn’t flinch when a spasm hits me, just stands there waiting for me.

“Want to go back inside?” Sam asks.

I don’t answer him for a moment. “Hey, Sam?”

“Yeah?” he asks as he rests his chin on my left shoulder.

“If... I-if you ever want to, you know, ask me... about Dad? You can,” I say, stuttering and awkward as I shift from one foot to the other.

Sam's smile gets a little bigger. “Thanks, Dean,” he says. “I will.”

End.


End file.
